Origins Written in Blood
by shutterbones
Summary: Some things were best left forgotten, while some should have never been remembered. I remember slipping, falling. Blood. Andraste help me, I was being devoured by the Fade itself, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to fight it anymore... BloodMage/Cullen
1. Templar's Prayer

**Author's Note: **I would like to thank you for attempting to get through this incredibly long and horrible fanfiction. I truly don't know how long it will be, only what I will be writing in it. I will warn you this is not a romance story, nor a feel-good story. It's a very morbid and dark story revolving around a very disturbed tower-raised elf mage with an even more disturbing past. It _is _a Cullen-themed romance to some degree, but it isn't really all that happy… so I'm just giving you a head's up here. Expect angst and gore and psychological taunting as the theme, not cuddly romance. I don't find this suitable for children, so if you are a child reading this - please stop reading now lol. Thank you and enjoy!

_This was a time before the wretchedness seeped in._

_Before the darkness engulfed us all, one by one. Piece by piece._

_Before she took everything that made me what I am._

_What I once was._

_Clack Clack Clack. _The soft tapping of my shoes echoed off the stone walls of the winding staircase, drifting upward and dispersing into the silence like a ghost. The tower was always such an abysmal and wretchedly deserted place at night. I had lived around and conjured the most disturbing spells and hexes since a small child, yet the silence of a deadened hallway still uprooted me. Unnerved me, I could even go as far to say.

My eyes darted down the long stretch of black hallway in the corridor. Nothing. They traveled to the fine golden tapestries on the wall, trimmed in red with various and elaborate mage symbols painted in pearl-white in the very center. I trailed along the line of the decorations so carefully spaced across the stone archways, each one symbolizing different spells and abilities to separate us mages into groups. Divide us. Primal mages with primal mages, healers with healers, hexers with hexers. Like cattle divided by the colors and shapes on their backs. Branded. They ranged down the dark hallway until they dispersed into nothingness, invisible to my eyes.

A quietly murmured spell into my hands and the small lightning rod I'd stolen from a Tranquil at the stock room bloomed into a visible glow. I narrowed my gaze before holding out the light to the hallway, trying in vain to peer down the dark expanse of shadows lain out before me as a yawning chasm. It would be sincerely easier sneaking about at night if I didn't have to play a guessing game as to where I was going every five steps, but then again no one expected mages to be up at such an hour. That didn't change the fact I would never understand how the tower could look so utterly different under the shadowed veil of night. I felt like I was awaiting for some demon to spring out at me around every corner or open archway.

The soft padding of the rug beneath my feet silenced my shoes, thankfully. Only a gentle brush of hardened soles against carpet could be heard. I made my way around the bend, carefully following along the path with my hand against the stone wall for guidance. I jumped when the surface under my hand shifted from smooth stone to wood, and gasped before jerking up my light to find what object had obstructed my path. A great portrait hung on the wall, that of First Enchanter Irving, undoubtedly commissioned in his younger days when he had a little less of the world written on his face. I tilted my head to the side and smiled pityingly against him.

"Still manage to catch me in the dark, do you?" I mused quietly to myself while putting my hand to my hip. I let my gaze linger on his portrait for a moment more, briefly dwelling on the subtle comfort I felt whenever looking up into the face of the closest form of family I'd had since my eviction into the tower so many years ago. If there was one mage I would never dare contradict or snap at-and how I did love a good sarcastic remark-it was Irving. I respected him, much to my regret, and I couldn't seem to escape such a feeling whenever I stood in his presence. It was unsettling and stirring, but I needn't think on it too hard. I didn't feel like being sentimental tonight; not tonight.

Just as I began to turn away from the portrait and plunge back into the darkness, a shift of light somewhere behind me caught my attention and made me jerk around. I froze, waiting for the shadows to shift again, but found no light twisting into my line of vision. Tensing, I held out the torch to the darkness and swallowed my breath, fearing the worst. When nothing came to jump out at me from the shadows, I sighed and slumped my shoulders before placing a hand over my face.

"Not as if the Fade itself will come and swallow me up," I muttered to myself before sighing again and turning back around to continue my increasingly vexing journey to the library. In the same instant I finally removed my hand from my face to scour back through the shadows, my eyes met another's-empty, pale, livid eyes-and shaped out the form of a ghosted little girl's face for the briefest moment.

I sucked in my breath and stumbled backwards, but instead of regaining my balance I felt my heel catch the edge of the hallway runner. I only had a moment to shriek before twisting around and crashing to the floor. My hands flew out to grasp any object I could find, and on my way down I pulled the spear from the knight display. I jumped and coiled tight in instinctive protection for myself, covering over my head and neck at the sound of the heavy metal weapon smacking against the stone floor in reverberation. I had hardly recovered and was attempting to uncurl my crumpled body when the sound of shifting metal caught my attention, and seconds later the suit of armor's head followed, crashing to the floor and sending me into another fit as I screeched and curled back up into a tight ball to escape the raining metal armor.

"Who goes there?" the telltale, militant shout of a Templar called down the corridor seconds later. My panic quickly shifted from whatever I'd seen moments ago to a completely new issue - getting caught. I was not one to spend another night in restricted isolation for getting caught awake after hours. Bloody Templars could shove it if they thought they could rope me into that again.

"Blast it!" I hissed through gritted teeth before shoving myself back onto my feet. A quick glance back down the corridor affirmed that at least one Templar was heading in my direction with a torch at hand. My head jerked back down the blackness of where I'd seen… whatever I had seen. A chill swept through my chest when I noted it had disappeared, whoever or whatever it was.

"I'll deal with you later," I murmured under my breath before turning back to the dark shadows of the corridor to streak blindly down to the library. I wasn't sure where my rod of light had landed, but I no longer cared. All that mattered now was escaping the Templar. Only a few feet into my journey, I stumbled and nearly hit my head on another armory display. A quick feel of the stone walls and I managed to jog the rest of the way until I found a door that was not locked. With my back smashed up against the door to double-check for any more unhappy spirits looking to greet me in the middle of the night, I opened the door and backed into the opening, shutting it once I'd gotten safely inside. Just as I was about to dare allow myself a breath of relief, a voice murmured directly from behind me and caused me to jump and turn around to face the new intrusion.

"May Andraste pour her blanket of mercy on me, and cast me not away for my imperfections. Maker protect me, and forgive me for I have done wrong unto what is in Andraste's purity and perfection," a man's voice murmured from an incomprehensible direction. I heard it as it whispered off the walls in an echo, bouncing about and leaving the voice without a face. As my eyes slowly traveled around to circle the room, I took in the tall, stone-white pillars that stretched high into the arched ceiling.

Directly across lay four stained glass windows etched with the stories of the chantry. In the center of the room, lying directly under the largest and most decorated stained glass window, stood a statue in the resemblance of Andraste. It was beautifully shaped, with not a nick out of place, and it looked as pearl-white as when it was first carved and placed between the pillars. As my eyes traveled down to the soldiered line of aisles, the distraction began to fade and I was reminded of where I now resided. The Chantry-right.

I had never been one for the Maker and all that business, or anything to do with it really. Or rather, I just wasn't very.. _active _in my faith. A curious note on my behalf, but I'd never really noticed the chantry in all my years of living in the tower. Drawing back from the world around me, I focused back on the repetitive, continuously lowered mutters of whatever religious-obsessive man had decided to come pray at three in the morning. Hopefully not a Templar. Not many mages in the tower were privy to the Maker, though I knew some to be. None that were personally my friends, of course. Most of the "chantry chanting" was left to the more over-obsessive, Templar-types and Andrastians, or as they liked to be called - "prophets of the Maker". Stuffed-up, obsessive types.

It would just be my luck of the evening to escape one Templar and run straight into another. I sometimes wondered if the Maker purposely mocked me in this manner. Though, for the most part-most of the Templars I knew of were not actually very religiously-oriented. Perhaps it was the spoilings of tower-bred "chantry" boys being left to quarters shared with clusters of our female mages all hours of the night without supervision, but most had never and did not strike me as very oriented in the chantry arts, aside from the captain of course. Though I did know of many other "arts" that our Templar boys were very well-versed in. But for another time and place.

If I wasn't in trouble already, I decided I might as well investigate thoroughly. Shoving my irritation to the side, I strutted casually forward toward the single candle lit at an alter in the far north corridor of the sanctuary. I made no point to quiet my steps since he'd undoubtedly heard me and I'd be damned either way. As I drew closer to the encompassing glow of the candlelight, I could see now that my worst assumptions had been correct. A templar sat crouched, head in hands, rocking back and forth as he begged a wooden altar stand to forgive his sins. Typical.

He was halfway through another round of his same plea for mercy when he finally realized another presence had joined him-namely me. He stopped mid-sentence just as I fell still. I stopped about five feet from where he crouched, using the stone wall for support as I leaned sideways and waited for him to act surprised.

"Rather late for relinquishing your sins," I remarked flatly. I saw a pair of eyes peek out from under the shoulder of his armor. As I met his gaze, untarnished, I saw a spark of either fear or recognition in his eyes. In that next instant, he violently and rather suddenly jerked to his feet and jumped back a good foot from where I stood. I made no reaction. Instead, I raised a brow, still waiting for the templar to recognize I was out of bed past curfew. Templars were awfully foolish, at times. More often than not, now that I came to think of it.

When he said nothing, and considered to stare at me with a blank, idiotic gawk of an expression, I frowned more and felt my irritation begin to rise up again. Well if he wasn't going to start a decent conversation-

"What were you doing?" I nodded toward the alter, not really interested but considering he might be more lenient were I to show some form of false appreciation to his extensive obsession with his Templar… ness. Again, he said nothing, just stared. I decided to revert back to taking in my surroundings by visual aid, and glanced back at his face, curious.

How anyone could take being a Templar so seriously (excluding Greagoir, of course) was beyond me. This definitely was not Greagoir, by the looks of his face. I might have seen him around the tower at some point, but this was not one of those times I was partial to remembering the event. He was altogether unfamiliar, and struck a chord well enough for me to realize that I actually had not even the _slightest _clue as to who he was. He wasn't a terribly young face, but not old either. Not scowling enough to be Finnis, which was my first guess. But not young enough to be Wendale, who was a bit too "pretty" for my liking. If he weren't so covered in shadows, I could even say he was a decent face. The shadow of a ruddy burnt-auburn stubble shown under the candlelight, as did a carefully pressed back head of distractingly orange-red hair. He had an angular, strict face. Just like a Templar. I wrinkled my nose and decided in that moment: I didn't like him at all.

"I don't remember seeing you about the tower," I noted suspiciously as I continued to inspect his face, ignoring how utterly disheveled he still looked.

"I know," he butted in out of the blue. My eyes darted up in surprise to find the hunk of armor actually spoke. I raised a brow, awaiting for him to elaborate on such a thoughtless reply. He darted his eyes away the moment I tried to meet his. He was rather skittish for a Templar.

"I-I mean, I haven't. Been here, I mean. I just arrived a week or so ago from a Ferelden Chantry outside Denerim where I trained. I signed up to join the recruitment for Templars here at the tower; I heard they were looking for more, so-"

"..So you came to join the witless muscle used to punish us into our proper places. Yes, I know," I sighed irritably. "You lot seem to multiply overnight, I swear it. More prude and uptight with every passing month, too, as it seems," I nodded while gesturing up and down at him with mild disinterest. My snippety remarks, which almost always seemed to have a bad effect on any Templar, still had not penetrated whatever thick barricade this new chantry boy had hidden behind. Perhaps I could even attempt to get away with my midnight excursion, seeing as he didn't have a clue that I wasn't supposed to be awake. That or he truly wasn't aware of the time. Or perhaps he was just a great, stupid oaf. The latter would not surprise me in the least.

"Excuse me?" he interrupted, his voice taking on a more incredulous, accusing tone. There we go. The Big and Bad Templar I was used to. I heaved a sigh and leisurely rolled my hip to put the weight on the other side, taking a lazy step forward to circle around the Templar to the altar stand where the candle still burned. He made sure to take a wide step clear of me to keep a foot's distance between us.

"Your lot, as in Templars, as in chantry chanters. Obsessive tool types that get up at three in the morning to come beg forgiveness for not shining their armor set hard enough the previous day," I mused in a flat voice while shifting the candle to put onto a holder. As I moved the candle onto the small silver holster, the flame licked out from the abrupt change of direction. "You know the type, I'm sure.." I went on, bending over to cup my hand around the candle and whisper a small incantation to relight the flame. I silently enjoyed the slight fear that twisted onto his face as he watched me conjure the fire from thin air. I pretended not to notice it as I cradled the newly-lit candle to my chest and turned back around to face him.

"Chantry boys bred outside the tower are usually expected to be so ardently… chaste and righteous or whatever other purist nonsense you were obviously led to believe in your petty Templar training. Which is fine, because it simply means you have nothing to worry about," I relented indifferently while drifting by the bookshelves to browse for the titles I was hoping to find. I saw nothing even remotely similar to what I sought. The templar, however, did not seem to be as calm anymore.

"What exactly do you mean by _chaste_?" he bit back, this time a little more fiercely. I was getting him riled finally, was I? Perhaps there was still some backbone in his Templar training after all. As I passed over the last possible bookshelf, which yielded no result, I sighed and abruptly turned to face the Templar-he stood perhaps a foot or less over me, but not enough to intimidate me in the least-and struck up a brow.

"To put it in simple terms so that your innocent ears may understand-" I sighed, "I imagine you have not had your hands up a woman's chemise? Have not had a turning of the apples?" His eyes grew suddenly very wide. "Stolen a maidenhead?" I asked bluntly.

"_E-Excuse me?_" he choked out, his voice cracking for a brief moment. I found it amusing that half of the color drained from his face. Under the candlelight, he looked almost as pale as my ghost-friend from earlier. I smirked and decided that I might as well go all to hell for the evening since he'd provided me with such colorful company so far. No time like the present to break the new boys in, anyway.

"You've never touched a woman in your life, I imagine," I said in a mockingly amused chuckle. I bared a surly grin in his direction before setting the candle down on a table and, in one fluid gesture, stepped forward and pressed up against the chest of his armor before letting my hand rest on the hilt of his belt sash. I felt his posture go absolutely rigid and face contort into frozen shock as he stood as still as the Andraste statue, unable to take in what I was doing much less comprehend it. I rumbled out a small, dark chuckle.

"You're all alike," I murmured up into his jaw. His cheeks flared red in that instant in sheer panic as I lingered there briefly to let the feelings settle in his skin. Let him crawl for a bit, and suffer. I shifted back seconds later, the grin wiped off my face to be replaced by the same unamused, flat expression I'd held before. The amusement passed, as did my interest. "Mindless, brutish suits of armor prepared to vanquish the world until you have a woman dropped into your hands. Then you have no idea what to do with her."

"It's almost amusing," I finished with a tilt of my head before turning to pick back up the candle holder and whipped back around to stride for the exit. I did not turn to glance back at him on the way out, finding my patience and interest exhausted for the evening, but instead just offered a word of advice over my shoulder while trotting toward the door.

"Perhaps you should revisit those vows of yours before morning, Templar," I called over my shoulder before striding back out into the darkness of the corridor, waiting until I was safely away from the chantry and well on my way back down the steps to the apprentice dorms to let a small grin flicker across my face. Foolish Templars.


	2. Blood Magic

"I've never quite understood it," he mused. I glanced up from my studies, too absorbed in the little readings I'd been offered on my long-sought subject to remember what he had said. What was it?

"About the Harrowing?" Jowan asked a bit more irritably than before. I blinked, still too stuttered by my own lost thoughts to remember. He waited for a moment, then finally heaved a great sigh and flopped down beside me in a chair.

"Honestly, Isthalla! How am I ever going to properly complain to you when you're always stuffing your nose in a book nowadays!" he whined while throwing his arms up in the air and dramatically flopping on top of my books. I felt a brief, sharp moment of irritation that he would so rudely interrupt me, then remembered this was Jowan. My best friend and fellow crime master since a child; he was entitled to his fancies, however ridiculous. I tried my hardest to remind myself of that.

"More than you ever have, I would say," I snorted. Jowan let a slow, appreciating grin spread across his lips as he took on the words as a gesture for friendly banter. How he did love to pull a good row with me every now and then-of course he always lost. However, he still seemed rather focused on the beforehand topic, dragging it back like a well-beaten dead cat I wasn't too fond of seeing again.

"I just don't understand it, is all! Sometimes I wonder if they are purposely dragging out my Harrowing just to amuse themselves!" he continued on with an insufferable moan. I rolled my eyes and snorted again.

"Jowan, even the Templars aren't that creative," I sighed while standing to my feet and snapping the book shut. "Honestly, quit worrying. You whine more than that Sanja girl does these days. It's quite annoying." She was, however, a hard mage to contest with in the matter of insufferable whining. Jowan was beginning to pull a close second, though.

"What if they never call me for my Harrowing?" he continued on, his words now turning into a nag on my ears. I heaved a loudly and irritable sigh of obvious discontent that should have told him _please stop dragging on about this_, but for the hundredth time he didn't seem to take the hint. I pretended I hadn't heard, and continued to put back the books I'd spent the last hours attempting to absorb in some false hope a new message would spring up from the depths of their pages. They yielded next to nothing. Less than nothing, my bitter thoughts added. I waited until I'd secured the very last book on the shelves, carefully so, before turning with a snap of my heel on Jowan and frowning.

"Jowan, honestly. You are being absolutely ridiculous about this. Not to mention overreacting-and for Maker's _sake _would you quit making that face at me?" I scolded while slapping him on the arm and striding past. Honestly, he was a pain to deal with sometimes. Like a child that would never shut up. I tried to ignore the pleading steps following right behind me, back to the apprentice quarters beside my bed.

"And for another thing," I continued on while folding my laundry and angrily stuffing it into the bag, "I know for a fact you will get to your bloody mage title, if it's so important to you." I shoved the last of the robes into the satchel, pleased with my exertion before snapping back to face Jowan right as the doubtful words formed on his lips.

"How?" he demanded. I smirked and raised a brow.

"Like any other way we get what we want," I responded smoothly. He knew that voice well, the voice I used when I was intending to do something entirely unruly and devious and fun. Which was often. I still had no idea how I would get him to his Harrowing, or titled as a mage, but I had made a promise. Perhaps a few bribed Templars and sweet-talked enchanters would do the trick, but it wasn't a concern for the moment. The fact was I had found a way to shut Jowan's bloody trap shut about it, and that just made the rest of my day perfect.

"Isthalla you are an angel," he beamed affectionately while kissing me on both sides of my face. I sighed and rolled my eyes, shoving him off me.

"Come off it, quit buttering me up before I change my mind and try a new hex on you," I lightly scolded before escaping from another shower of affection from him that briefly trailed to my neck. After a few more planted, earnest kisses-one across my jaw and neck-I finally broke into a stuttering laugh and slapped him off me. He bore me a happy, bright smile before planting one more kiss on my hand and bounding off.

"I'll pay you back for it, I promise!" he called over his shoulder, but I just smiled and waved him off, knowing Jowan-of all mages-was the most likely to forget what he owed another person. Though I didn't mind. The silly, foolish, devious mage that he was-he was still my best friend, as odd as the phrase sounded to me at times. The only male I could stand for more than a few hours, too, no less, without retching or wanting to hex into oblivion. I assumed it was the effects of growing up together with alike minds; being in trouble with a friend more often than not was more fun than going in alone.

Once he'd left I was reminded of how empty the apprentice's quarters were, and just how alone I felt. Today was my Harrowing. I would be put to the test many before me had taken, and either be killed, turned into a Tranquil, or make it out alive. Of course I didn't have much of a worry about passing it - I had no concern about that. It was the _other _matters weighing on my mind. The things I had spent countless hours in the library trying to find in vain for the past six months and failing miserably, the books I would look up from reading and when inquisitively asked _"What are you doing?" _I would easily lie and say I was studying for my Harrowing.

I had been doing everything but.

What was beyond my comprehension and everything revolving around my frustration was that we had every library book imaginable on how to tear another person limb-from-limb using combinations of hex spells to the history of every famous abomination and how they obtained their titles, yet we had nothing… absolutely and wretchedly _nothing _on the subject of blood mages.

Truly, I didn't understand why. Of course the obvious _blood magic is forbidden _term came to my mind, but the obviousness of that statement continued to sway towards the logic of it: why didn't we even have a history about it? About the dangers of it? What it was composed of? Why was it the Templars were only allowed to know about these things, of all indignations. Did they purposely keep the mages oblivious to it in hopes they might be wiped out with their lack of knowledge? The most perplexing thought was that I had _sworn _I'd seen a book with the word "blood magic" on it in the library the previous winter. It had disappeared. That or I had imagined it.

No, I couldn't have. It was impossible that I could mistake a book title so distinctly, and thereafter searching for it the past six months and yielding no result was…disturbing. Even First Enchanter Irving had nothing to say about the matter. He simply gave me a wary, keen look that confused me more than worried me and said I shouldn't be looking into such 'dark subjects'.

Right, like the books on demon possession and incantations for raising the dead weren't "dark" enough as well. It was not my battle to fight though, and I'd left it at that. Left a bit empty and more frustrated, but I would not contradict Irving. Regardless of my feelings about it. Amid my thoughts while lingering in the open doorway of the apprentice quarters, I heard a voice interrupt my thoughts.

"I-Isthalla," the words were spoken as more of greeting with a worked-in, questioning feeling at the end. I broke from my prison of confusion to find myself staring at a slightly familiar face. Angular, strict face. Brown eyes. Brazenly red hair. Foolish little grin betraying the corner of his lips. Right, what was his name?

"You pop up everywhere don't you…." I trailed off while giving him an expectant look to finish my sentence and clear my memory with his name. He straightened up and held a look of stuttering surprise.

"O-Oh, Cullen," he finished, letting that same little grin flicker on his lips. Honestly, he looked like an overeager child lately. I worked my mouth into a frown and raised a brow.

"Well, unless you have a point for gawking outside of the apprentice dorm like a fooli-" I began lazily; irritably.

"Oh, I do! I mean to say-" he cut himself off to clear his throat and put his Big Boy Templar Voice on. How cute. "I am to accompany you to the Harrowing Chamber for your… initiation," he finished with an unsure expression. I grinned a bit, feeling the malice seeping into my voice as I spoke.

"Then I suppose you're the one appointed to strike me down should I go all to hell and turn into an abomination, then?" I laughed in a bitterly amused way. Cullen didn't seem to find it so appropriate, and only made a slightly sickened face before adjusting the heavy metal collar of his armor and stepping to the side so I could exit the archway.

"No, well. I am your appointed Templar should it go astray, but I do not relish the thought," he trailed off, then shut his mouth since obviously he said something embarrassing. I found the awkwardness terribly amusing, if not cute in some fashion. He'd been here for six months now, yet still retained that gawkish and rather awkward façade of a lost little puppy in a scary new world. I kept waiting for the Templar-ness to kick into his system, but so far it had failed miserably. Oh well, I could at least drag it out while I still had the chance. It was a terribly fun pastime to tease such vulnerable targets, especially one so hopelessly weak and soft.

"I do wonder if there was a bit of ironic purpose in appointing you for such a task," I continued on while striding down the hallway with Cullen in my wake. He seemed ardent in his belief that it was anything but, and caught up beside me with a wider stride while trying to hide the stutter under his voice.

"Of course not! I-I mean, that would be nonsense!" he professed valiantly. I held back a chuckle, only offering a small, whipping smirk in his direction before turning back to the front, smug, and beginning the ascent up the stairs to the next level. The Templar seemed to have trouble keeping up, amusingly.

"Well I believe it makes perfect sense to use such a thing against you to try and teach you a lesson. I mean, _really, _consorting with a mage-_you should know better, Cullen_," I continued to egg on in a mocking, dramatic voice. I couldn't hold it back anymore. A wide grin cracked across my lips just as we began to round the bend toward the chamber stairs. Cullen fell short at the bottom, stopping to turn intently to me and prove his point. His cheeks were flaring red.

"I have not consorted with any mages for that matter, and I don't believe this is very appropriate to be discussing right now," he demanded in an uneasy voice that came out as more like a pleading whimper than a direct order. He was still trying to find his legs, the poor thing, and I couldn't help but feel bad he was failing so miserably for a moment, but it passed when I realized he probably was secretly enjoying every second of this. Somewhere deep down past his Templar-ness and stuffy armor, he liked the thrill of it. The prospect. Every other templar in the tower had proven that thus far, and he was no different. He was still a male after all, and a human. Two things best associated to what she considered to be h-

"There you are!" a familiar, motherly voice scolded from the archway outside the chamber steps. I heaved a sigh and rolled my eyes towards the sound of slapping, impatient shoes against the stone. Wynne, all huffed up and flustered as ever, appeared with her hands flung in the air while striding up to greet us both. "You are supposed to be in that chamber right now, Isthalla! I don't know what you've been distracted by all afternoon but if you wait any longer I can promise you'll be sleeping in the apprentice quarters for a long time to come. Now go! Quickly!" I didn't need to be told twice.

Gently shooing us up the stairs, I shrugged off the feeling of her impatient hands and began the ascension up towards the chamber, listening to the uncomfortable sound of Cullen's armor shifting beside me. As we stopped at the very top to the large, foreboding doorway, I leaned in for one last word to pick up on our conversation from earlier, and in truth to put my mind a little more at ease now that I was standing in front of the Harrowing Chamber, about to have my fate decided by a singular test that could mean life or death.

"I don't suppose you count that little midnight chat in the chantry we had six months ago as a violation of Templar rules, then?" I harmlessly tittered in his direction just as the doors were swung open and we were greeted by four other Templars, their helmets on to hide any possible scrutiny of living faces behind the veil, and tried to hold my chuckle in at seeing the sudden gaping expression falter on Cullen's face as I stepped ahead of him and into the chamber.

I felt a grim comfort in the fact he would be the one to kill me, should it come to that. Or at least that's what I secretly hoped for during the flashing moment where I stepped up to a smoking pedestal and glanced over my shoulder at him, asking for help. For answers. I saw equal fear and apprehension written on his face, worked over by a struggle to remain as stone-faced as the other Templars in the chamber. Suddenly, my bright optimism and confidence were lost by the image of four Templars brutally murdering me on the Harrowing Chamber floor as Irving, my guidance and leader since a child, watched without batting an eye. The hidden look of slight worry on his face as I glanced back didn't help me, either.

For the first time, I felt doubt trickle into my bones in the same instant I touched the white glow and was sent reeling into a place I had never, in all my practice and studies, been prepared for.


	3. Nightmares

This day, I had awaited, and dreaded, for a long time.

_She must never know._

Many had been ushered in my time, with patient hands, into the guidance of the Fade. After years under my watchful eye, and after my confidence had grown enough in them that they were indeed prepared to approach the darkness, and conquer it, I would send them forth unto the unknown to meet such a face. A duty I had long forgotten when it first began, decades ago. A eternity past.

But she-I had been so sure of her success, so positive-changed it with a singular look of fear cast back at me from the pedestal. I saw a small child's face, barren and lost of expression, standing once more amongst the blood and carnage of an orphanage fifteen years ago. Wondering what had happened to everyone else? Why were they lying down? Were they asleep, she asked.

_Were they asleep._

My eyes wearied by the candlelight, straining to memorize the lines over once more. I listened to every faint noise, each small change of sound in the air. Faded footsteps in the hallway, then the sound of a distant order from one of the stationed Templars. Yes, it certainly was a busy day, wasn't it? I was rubbing a temple in apprehension when a soft footstep at my door drew my eyes up.

"Am I interrupting?" a placid, familiar voice asked. I raised my eyes level with her own, recognizing the face long-embedded into my memory, before flickering my eyes back to the parchment stretched over my desk.

"No, I'm afraid," I sighed while shutting close the dusty book beside the parchment. I offered a weary smile at my old friend's approach. "Just a few things to contemplate over," I added. She accepted my answer with a gracious nod, but yet I still found a troubled frown that threatened the edge of her lip. A tell-tale sign she had come with a purpose, and did not intend to leave without it fulfilled. I breathed in deep. Before I had the chance to ask, she spoke up.

"I have a bit of a concern regarding the Harrowing today, Irving," Wynne politely offered me. I could hear the tone in her voice, the concern and slight indication of uneasiness that willed me to listen further. I nodded in understanding while making a slow, shuffling rise to my feet.

"As do we all, I imagine," I mumbled in hopes to brush the subject away. I could feel it in my bones what she intended to ask, tentative and relentless woman that she was. A good reason I trusted her so avidly. She placed a hand flat against my desk, stopping me and bringing my attention back to her.

"Irving, I cannot willingly let you thrust this apprentice into her Harrowing when she is clearly not prepared for it," Wynne breathed out all at once. I took a moment to let her concern sink in, and consider it, then weighed my own choices. A slow rumble rose in my throat.

"And are you to determine whether she is ready or not?" I asked in a light, gentle voice. I had no intentions of arguing with her, but neither would she drop the issue until some form of assurance was given. I had hopes of deterring her from the subject, but knowing her-well, she was a stubborn woman to say the least-I would be long dead before a conclusion could be reached. I, instead, offered a pleasant grin.

"I apologize," she nodded while casting her eyes down. I had hoped it would be the end of the conversation, but she would not back down, essentially becoming the Mabari that would not release a shoe to it's master. Her eyes flashed back up a moment after the falter.

"I understand that you may believe she is ready, but because of your… position, I am not as apt to believe so, Irving," she gently chided me. I took into account her words with a small chuckle in my throat while stroking my chin.

"Do you think I am not aware that she has been my apprentice for the past fourteen years, Wynne?" I said, amused. Wynne worried her expression more and frowned, crossing her arms.

"Of course I know, but I cannot be the only one who plainly sees it-she's unmanageable, Irving. If you intend to let a mage that dangerous simply go into her Harrowi-"

"Wynne-" I cut in, quieting her with a gentle glance. "I do not believe I spent all this time training her without knowing when she may be ready for her Harrowing. I took her as my apprentice in full understanding of this, and I have not changed my mind." I chuckled and tipped my head back a little.

"And I certainly remember that a senior enchanter came in here once saying the same thing about you when you were an apprentice," I added with a fond smile. Wynne held her expression for a moment more before letting it finally sift away, then sighed.

"Then I suppose I have no right to question it, if you truly believe she is ready for this. I just hope you know what you are doing, Irving," she relented with a final, wary glance in my direction. I offered a chuckle.

"Well I certainly hope so as well. Wouldn't want demons roaming the Circle all hours of the day, now would we?" I joked while following her to the open doorway of the office. I took a moment to glance both ways down the hallway for any signs of other mages or Templars about, and turned back to Wynne, my smile slightly faded.

"I suppose it is time to begin preparations, however," I noted while stepping out of the doorway and into the carpeted hall. Wynne turned to me with a final frown of disapproval, still voicing her contempt over the situation even in silence. I creased my brow together and felt the smile wash away completely as I turned back to her.

"We must always assume any mage will be a danger to the Circle, Wynne. Isthalla is just as much a risk as any other; no different and no less," I carefully told her, though in the back of my mind the words felt shallow and unfulfilled. I feared the uncertainty had slipped into my voice as I spoke, because the look she gave me in the next instant was anything but relieved. I decided nothing more needed to be said or added to weigh down the conversation, and instead bared a small, unsure frown before turning down the opposite hall and striding away before she had another chance to argue.

_If I do not try now, she may never have a chance again._

A great, deepening pit was beginning to settle in my chest. The longer I stood there, waiting, and watching, the more I felt the uneasiness of Wynne's words creep up into my mind. I had never been a very unsure man, nor one who would so quickly doubt the ability of my own pupils, yet I knew why I had such doubts for this one. Many knew why.

"_Maker save us!" a Templar cried while streaking away from the gates like a frightened child. I had been called from the Circle to an unsettling incident going on in the Alienage, yet I did not know what to expect. Frightened, suspicious people that they were, I did not expect any "uprising" in the Alienage to be a largely important deal, much less true. We were sent handfuls of children every month labeled as a "witch" or "devil-child", yet less than half turned up true in the end. My impression of the nobles and humans of Denerim was a little less than faithful, considering their retained views over the level of humanity in their so-called "Alienage" district._

_Yet, watching clusters of bloodied Templars streaking out of the gates for reinforcements settled something knotting and cold in my gut, telling me to be wary. I could already hear the faint screams, and the smell of death and blood. The taint of fearful magic-dangerous magic. What I encountered was beyond what any of us had expected, much less been apt to try and swallow once we walked through that forsaken door in the Alienage._

I closed my eyes and willed the ever-vivid memory away, reminding myself I could not ignore this opportunity for the sake of my discontent. Any later and she would never have the chance to try, nor would she ever be able to control it. I had spent weeks, if not months, debating this. There was no other choice. I had done all I could for her, and now-the rest was left up to her sheer willpower and strength. Maker, I prayed she had the strength to conquer this. To control it, as well as herself.

This could be put off no longer.

In my same, conclusive moment, I heard muffled voices outside the large double doors, followed by the sound of wood creaking as four Templars lined up to open the only entrance and exit to greet the apprentice and accompanying executioner, should things go wrong. I wanted to offer a bitter smile to myself at the sight-Isthalla, looking as brave and strong-willed as ever, accompanied by the most unlikely-thought Templar of all, Cullen, who seemed positively upright about the situation. I hoped she at least had comfort in the knowledge it would be someone she was familiar with, and seemed to tolerate more than most Templars. That eased my mind to some degree.

All went well and as planned, performed in the ritual I had seen and recited one too many times in my day. The Templars seemed to shadow her every move, even so much as a tiny step over to where I stood before the ritual took place. She glanced at me.

"I don't suppose you have any last-moment advice for me, First Enchanter?" she asked, the undercurrent of her voice betraying a slight fear I was not accustomed to hearing. I perked and turned my thoughtful gaze on her, letting her face embed into my memory as a final keepsake in another moment of streaking doubt. I felt a pang when I realized just how similar she was to her mother-the same dark, raven-black hair, lovely and pale young face, and challenging eyes that spoke of wisdom and strength. Yes, she'd always had such potential and confidence, but then again… so had her mother. _So had her mother…_

I tried to ignore the similarities, or the fact that the red markings etched into her face like a long-buried symbol of her past did not exist. The telltale, blood-red symbols that stood for something and represented a part of her I never wished upon her to know. As strong and fierce as she was, Isthalla had always been a very soft girl at heart. I could not ignore that, and did not wish upon her such tragedies as what those same symbols that had been on her mother's face represented. Isthalla frowned and looked at me again.

"First Enchanter?" she tested again, this time quieter. I broke from my thoughts to turn, surprised, back to face her. I took a brief moment of curiosity before offering a smile down at her-a pleasant, comforting expression as my last thoughts.

"I have taught you all I can, dear girl. The rest is entirely up to you," I reminded her. She nodded in understanding and said nothing more, but I could see the growing anticipation in her eyes. I had hoped for every confidence in her the day of her Harrowing, yet as she stepped up to the smoke of the lyrium, I could see it reflected in her eyes as fear. She looked as a small girl once more, as the frightened child I'd seen the day in the Alienage. I frowned, and in that moment she looked back at me, giving away all of her obscurities and questions in one single look. I had nothing to offer for comfort back, and instead worried my brow and frowned, waiting for her to take the plunge, and silently praying the Maker would have mercy on her soul. But as she reached out to touch the white glow, I felt a sudden jolt of panic rush through my old bones in sudden, dropping, horrifying doubt that this might have been one of my worst mistakes in my long life. Seconds after she had made the connection to the Fade, a long, blood-curdling scream tore open from her mouth and echoed through the entire chamber as she twisted to the ground in pain.

_No, not again._


	4. Remember Me

I remember waking to the sounds of my own, horrified screams of agony. Were they pain? I couldn't be sure. Only that, upon fully regaining consciousness into the world, I felt a great pressure on me, a straining I could not comprehend. I was writhing and twisting on my back as the pressure continued to shove me further into the cold stone floor. It constricted me.

I next remembered the screams fading once I became aware of their source. I quieted myself in an instant, still too dizzy and confused by the realization the noise had been coming from my lips and not another's. I was not in pain. Why was I screaming? The haze cleared as I recalled the chamber, and the sound of muttered voices and two men shouting at each other.

"We _must _stop her now! I can allow this no more, Irving!" Greagoir's familiar voice rung through my mind, muddled and far-off. I still had not the sense or strength to open my eyes, simply breath. Breath. I was still struggling, yet not sure why. Odd mutters and growls slipped from my lips. Then I heard Irving's voice, and I felt a great wave of calmness wash over me.

"Your impatience would have every apprentice dead before they had a ch-" Irving shot back, but fell suddenly short. The chamber silenced, as had I. Did they realize I had awoken? Why had I fallen asleep in the first place? My head rung with far-off, confusing voices that had seemed so clear moments ago. They were fading. I didn't want them to.

_Please, please… __please…._

I finally forced my eyes open. It felt as if lead weights had been pressed to my lids, sealing them shut for an eternity. The movement felt painful-everything sore. Why did I feel so utterly exhausted? I opened my eyes and found myself staring at the top of a sword raised above my breast. My breath fell short.

"I-Isthall-la?" he choked out in a barely-audible whisper. I blinked, staring up into a pair of wide, terrified brown eyes hovering over me, encompassing a familiar face I remembered somewhere in the back of my mind. Familiar, yes. _Cullen.._ my mind whispered to me. I blinked again, still trying to understand why he would be holding a sword over me as if he actually expected to stab me with it. Seemed like such a silly thought.

_What are you doing, Templar? _I wanted to ask, but it came out as nothing more than a weak mutter. My voice had been torn from my throat, unable to properly voice my slight amusement and befuddlement why I was on the floor with Cullen hovering over me like a demented child. My eyes rolled about, too tired to continue looking, too weary to make the effort to strain to see everyone, but I wanted to.

"Maker's mercy…" I heard another voice sigh. My vision continued to blur, keeping me from pinpointing who had spoken. I wanted to stand up, wanted to pull the pressure from my body and ask why in the world everyone was looking so positively grave. Honestly, they acted as if they'd just witnessed a funeral by the heavy weight filling the air. It was all too uncomfortable for me.

"Let me up," I finally managed to hiss from a sore jaw. It felt as if my tongue had been swallowed, thick and clumsy thing it was. My lips, dried and stretched too many times across my face. Everything felt absolutely stiff and sore, torn and forced back into the socket. Had I gotten into a fight while I was asleep? No, that seemed just as silly and impossible.

_Then why are you on the floor?_

The Templars seemed reluctant to release me, but after a muttered, regretful order from Greagoir, I felt the pressure released from my extremities. I could move and breathe again, though I wasn't quite sure if I wanted to yet. _Maker, _it felt like an entire brick wall had fallen on me. For all my knowledge, there was a strong possibility one _could _have. I scrunched up my brow, then decided it was too much work to even try to scowl. I let out a weak sigh.

"Let me up.." I repeated even quieter than the first time. I didn't understand why I was so utterly exhausted; even my voice, my greatest weapon in times of battle where all else was gone, was too weak to even intimidate a small beetle. I wanted to frown in irritation, but found it too difficult to work up the energy. My world was spinning, falling, and slipping. I tottered to the side and fell against something cold and metal. "Let me up," I growled again, getting irritated by their incessant need to continue and ignore me. A voice murmured right beside my ear.

"You are standing, Isthalla," a worried voice told me. A familiar voice I couldn't place, and had forgotten again. It kept slipping away like sand from my fingers. What was it again? Something about red. _Red_. Red hair. Little child.

_You are so childish, Templar._

"Cullen," I muttered. I liked the familiarity of the words, the security of being back in a place I remembered and knew. Anything but-wait, what was before? I could not remember. I only woke up, that's right. There was nothing before. Nothing before this, before the tower. I was here, and nothing else mattered. _Nothing from before.._

_You don't remember me, do you?_

The same, seething, female voice taunted my head, distant and unfamiliar. Yet I remembered it, I'd heard it… somewhere between when I last remembered being awake, standing at the pedestal, then waking up on the floor. I remembered it being somewhere between there, somewhere. _Somewhere…. But where?_ I was too tired to try and think about it, I just wanted to rest for a while.

Somewhere between Cullen reminding me I was standing and waking up, back in my bed, I realized I must have fallen asleep again. I never remembered being so tired in my entire life. Though, when I finally did wake up under the sheets and comfort of my own bed, I felt as if I'd awoken from death itself. The soreness and weakness had left, to some degree, but I felt the mechanics to move my mouth and, well, to _move _again. Suddenly I had the desire to move as quickly as possible again, and get up. I was not a creature of patience, that was for certain. Something rigid and cold braced my shoulder and prevented me from getting up.

"Please, don't," the voice asked. I wanted to be irritable with it, but found it impossible. I remembered the voice now as belonging to a face I'd seen after waking up the first time. A terrified, absolutely rigid face that looked at me as if he expected the Fade itself to leap out and swallow him whole upon opening my eyes. I blinked and let the world blur back in, slowly drawing my gaze up the silver armor and to his face, no longer afraid. Simply exhausted. Worried.

"Why are you here?" I demanded once I'd remembered how to work my mouth. I needed to talk again, to speak and feel familiar in my own skin once more. The familiarity of snapping at Cullen seemed a good enough start. For one, he shouldn't be in my room. And another thing-

"Don't touch me," I added as an off-hand remark while pushing his hand of my shoulder. He did not protest, and let the hand drop limply back into his lap before sitting back in his chair. He was sitting at my bedside. I frowned.

"Are you all r-" he began to ask me, but I had no concern for his questions. I cut him off, feeling misplaced anger rise in my chest. Why did I feel so irritable? More than usual, anyway.

"I'm fine-you didn't answer my question, Templar," I snapped. He looked at me, a long, surprised moment like it wasn't an every-day occurrence to have me act so short with Templars, and finally blinked.

"I-" he stopped, screwing up his face in that faintly familiar, sickened look from the chamber. He tilted his head. "Isthalla, do you not remember?" he asked disbelievingly. I still did not understand why everyone was acting so bloody upset and frightened, carefully tiptoeing around conversations with me like I would explode at any moment. I would prefer them chastising me for disrespect than acting _this _pitiful. It irritated me to no end.

"Remember what?" I snapped, finding that fine line between patience and anger beginning to strain. I shrugged my shoulders in bafflement. "As far as I am concerned I woke up here, and I was supposed to go through with my Harrowing," I said irritably. Cullen's expression twisted even more, into an even more pitiful, ridiculous show of pain. He frowned.

"You.. did," he forced out after another too-long pause. I looked at him.

"What..?" I broke in, my voice edging on doubt for the first time. The irritability was now replaced by unsure curiosity. Sharp, white flashes suddenly obstructed my vision, causing a split second of pain. I stifled a groan and brought a hand to my head, trying to shut away whatever had hurt me. Cullen had his hand on my shoulder again.

"Please, you need rest, Isthalla," he urged, but once I'd regained myself I slapped his hand away and shifted more on the edge of the bed, further away from his urgent, invading hands.

"I need nothing except an explanation as to _why I am here_," I snapped while drawing my face up from my cradling palm and casting a fierce scowl in his direction. Cullen paused to consider my words, then finally sighed and shook his head. I did not know it was possible he could wrinkle his forehead any more than it already had, but he did.

"Isthalla, you were… screaming. The entire time," he stuttered out, "the moment you touched the lyrium you screamed and fell to the floor. It took all of us to hold you down." I felt a small jump in my chest as I briefly recalled some far-off, dream-like memory of the sound as I woke up. I remember hearing it as I awoke, just not the connection to it coming from my own lips. I frowned and stared, waiting for him to explain more as he put two fingers to the bridge of his nose and sighed.

"You nearly _killed _Ser Weston," he continued on, straining. I blinked. I could not comprehend what he meant. I had fallen asleep, or blacked out or something, but I _knew _that wasn't possible. He was lying, I didn't try to attack anyone. If I couldn't even _remember _something like that, it had to be impossible-it had to. I began to shake my head, disbelieving, but Cullen's grave expression did not falter.

"I thought I was going to have to kill you…" he whispered. I saw a remembered fear on his face as he privately recalled whatever memory he had of that moment, of the brief seconds where I foggily remembered him hovering above me with his sword poised in the air and terror streaking across his eyes. I tried to blink away odd voices whispering in the distant confines of my mind. Perhaps there were others in the dorm? I looked around, expecting to see someone, anyone, standing off to one side and muttering to themselves. The entire dorm had been cleared of anyone else. I frowned and turned back to Cullen.

"That's impossible. I don't remember any of that nonsense," I argued. _Half-true… _my subconscious whispered. I turned my eyes away from Cullen, not too keen on staring at that foolish, pitying expression any longer. I couldn't stand it.

"You're saying you don't remember a single bit of it?" he questioned after a silence. I looked up. "Nothing at all?" he eased. I felt the anger flare up again as I turned on him and suddenly stood to my feet in a fit of lost patience and built-up frustration.

"No!" I snarled. "I don't remember, Templar! Now I would appreciate if you took your interrogation _elsewhere_!" I hadn't meant to shout it so loudly, but the damage had been done when I heard my own voice echo through the entire chamber dorms and reverberate back to where I stood. I faltered on my snarl, suddenly impulsed to apologize to him.

"I am sorry," he said before I could remember how to work up the words. His face twisted into meekness as he stood to his feet and nodded before backing toward the door. "I will leave you to rest; Irving wishes to see you when you are ready," he added mutedly before turning to exit through the open doorway. I waited until the sound of his armored footsteps fading before daring let my posture and expression loosen. I sighed and slumped back down onto the bed.

"Go away, please," I groaned to the continuous invisible hammer pounding against my skull.

"Well if that's how you feel, then I shall leave," a voice piped up. I jerked my arm _away from _my eyes and turned to find Jowan standing over my bed with a small grin on his face. My heart jumped into my throat.

"Jowan!" I breathed a little too excitedly while standing to my feet to hug him. "Maker's breath, _finally _someone I don't want to strangle with my bare hands!" Jowan laughed and pulled me into his arms with comforting, familiar hands, just slightly pulling me off the floor before setting me back down. I let my hands slip to his chest and pulled back to study his face.

"You aren't going to interrogate me too, are you?" I asked, my gaze narrowing. He laughed again and took my hands in his.

"Not unless it leads to something other than a hex on my smallclothes," he joked. I raised a brow and smirked, lightly tapping him on the chest before turning to sit back on my bed and offer him a spot beside me.

"So!" he started up cheerily after a small pause. "How did it go?" I turned to find a bright, happy smile on his face. Not a care in the world, nothing pounding in the back of his skull. No voices whispering. No worries. I considered my possible answers, weighing which one seemed the most appropriate, and if it would be wise to keep it to myself what Cullen had told me. Though, by nightfall, I would not be surprised if the entire Circle had heard about it. Bloody Templars can't keep their traps shut.

"Well, I-" I paused, thinking back on the image of five Templars hovering above me with Cullen holding a sword over my head. I creased my forehead. "I dunno," I finished finally with a lame shrug. Jowan barked a laugh.

"Don't know? How could you not know?" he mused. I, however, didn't feel so light-hearted about it. The more I muttered the empty phrase _I don't know_, the less truth I felt in it. The strange, whispering voices kept fading and getting louder, like the ebb and flow of the lake tides. I felt that same exhaustion creeping back under my skin, nagging me that I was pushing more than I could offer. I shut my eyes and put a hand to my head.

"I just… don't know," I mumbled as the voices burst back in, loud and clear, for a split second and faded away. I could hear a little girl laughing, then a woman's voice scolding her to put something down. My head was being cleaved in two, I was sure of it.

"Weeellll," Jowan dragged on with a sigh. "If you say so, Isthalla. Whenever you remember, I better be the first to hear the entire story, though. Or I'll have to hex you myself," he added with a fond smile before placing a hand on my back and letting it slip away as he stood to his feet. I offered an unsure, brittle smile up at him once he'd stood.

"I promise," I nodded. This seemed to satisfy his curiosity long enough to will him back out the door, leaving me alone once again. I glanced around the room, wondering where my trunk had gone. They must have brought it to the Mages' dorm. Weird, I never thought the word would sound so foreign. My hands drifted across the worn bedding of my cot, then drifted up to the wooden framework, tracing over each familiar, aged line I remembered since a small child.

"I guess I should go see Irving, then," I sighed before pulling myself to my feet. My head spun, but I regained myself enough to stumble to the floor and remember how to walk straight. Perhaps there was a drunken-type of effect whenever someone used a lyrium potency that high in one dose. The idea that the Circle had to put you into a drunken coma to become a full mage was an amusing and comforting thought to entertain myself with as I made my way down the hallway, tracing familiar lines along the stone walls and over the Knight displays in the same fashion I had as a small child.

_Little Isthalla. _

_Little, Little Isthalla._

_Little, foolish Isthalla._


	5. Sleeping Lies

I could not escape the feeling I was missing something, that I was not being _told _something I should have been told… a long time ago. I could not stop playing the memory of my meeting with Irving over and over in my mind, trying to find a gesture I had missed, a word or phrase I had overlooked.

I went into his office, and left as the sun set an hour later with no more or no less information or knowledge than going in. I felt just as confused and bitter over my frustration. I had seen that same uncomfortable, untelling expression that left me wondering why he was scowling, why he'd made that odd noise in his throat and looked quizzically at his bookcase when I told him I just remember voices, and asked if it was normal to hear them after your Harrowing. No answers, just questions. Just curious, baffling looks.

One hundred million questions pounding in my skull. I wanted them gone, and wanted this entire mess over with. I'd never anticipated such… egregious, fantastic _frustration _accompanying something so simple as a Harrowing. You take your test, you pass it (or fail), and you move your trunk to the upper level (or to the graveyard/Tranquil dorm, which is pretty much the same thing). That's it. That's all there is to it, or all there _should _be, but of course mine had to be the difficult one. I had to be the one where I was left staring at contemplative, silent faces who didn't know much more than I had about what exactly happened in that chamber. Why it happened the way it did.

_Why were you on the floor?_

Asking myself it for the twenty-second time was not helping. I groaned and rolled over in my bed, trying to rid myself of thought. Clear my head. Empty it. Cool, calm, empty. The more I recited the words, the quieter it became. The questions stopped, and silence fell over me. I was lulled by it, comforted by it. But that didn't change how unnerved I was by my new sleeping quarters.

A slight shift of noise somewhere in the distance and I shot up out of my bed, eyes darting about and a threatening glow forming around my palm to prepare and strike whatever dare try and attack me in the middle of the night. My accusatory gaze scanned over the room with violent, needy practice, and fell upon a small mouse darting over the stretch of my carpet. Oh.

"Bloody rodent.." I growled through gritted teeth before swinging my legs over the edge of my bed and planting my feet on the floor. The mouse squeaked and lurched away from the disturbance and scampered under my bed. Just my luck. I heaved another irritable sigh, just imagining the disgusting little rat making a nest in my undergarments and twisted my face into a disgusted snarl.

"Oh no you don't," I muttered while flipping around to lay face-down on my mattress and hang my shoulders over the edge to find the blasted creature. As I wrapped my hands around the framework of my bed and tilted my head over the side, I was met by a nearly-impenetrable darkness. I narrowed my gaze.

"Where are you.." I whispered to myself, searching for a pair of tiny black eyes in the shadows. I heard a shuffling noise, and glanced at the furthest corner under my bed. "Helloo.." I beckoned, hoping to either lure or scare the scrap of fur out from under my bed. I could hear a scratching noise. Maybe I'd mistaken it for a mouse-was it a rat, perhaps? Disgusting, flea-bitten vermin that they were. Another noise. That sounded loud.

Much louder than I intended, actually. I frowned as the shuffling and scratching grew even louder, then accompanied by a very audible squeak. I felt a small lurch in my chest. Fear. Why was I suddenly afraid? It was nothing but a small, inferior mouse. Rat. A rodent or something, but nothing that could harm me.

I continued to stare at the blank space where I heard continued shuffling, and finally, _finally _saw a shape move in the darkness. _Well that was bigger than I thought…_ I mused to myself when I noticed how large it was. It had it's back to me. I hoped it wasn't a terribly large rat. Did a bigger rodent perhaps sneak into the tower somehow and get under my bed?

The animal shifted, twisting around to face me. I could see the shape of a round skull, then tiny paws-or were they hands?-held up to its face. It moved to face me, slowly. Carefully. Tentatively. I saw a pair of black, beady eyes staring back at me. Something jolted in my chest and warned me-told me not to disturb it. To get away. Yet my curiosity compelled me forward, and I reached out a dumb, intrusive hand towards the creature. It's black, beady eyes were so familiar and so haunting. I felt entranced by it, curious little thing. _Little girl.._

As I reached out to touch her, to comfort her and help her, the black eyes turned to molten fire. Flames burst from her mouth and eyes and leaked down her ashen face. She was no little girl, but a monster. A twisted reflection. I screamed and felt an ashen arm spring out and wrap around my wrist, dragging me forward and into the depths. Dragging me under.

I felt such a deep fear, one I had never known, engulf me like a great wave and sink me down into a pit of terror. I screamed for my life, and I screamed for a fear I did not understand, only felt. I only understood I wanted away from her, that _thing_, whatever she was, whatever _it _was. A horrible, banshee-like shriek was erupting from her elongated mouth, breathing out in heat-waves from the fire that seemed rooted from her chest. I wanted away from her, I wanted it gone; the fear, the pain, the terror.

I screamed and struggled and pulled, yet every new jerk seemed to engulf me more into the shadows. I could see nothing now, nothing around me. The bed had been replaced by shadows, and I was twisting in every direction to get away. I felt dry sobs choking my own breath as I begged her to let me go, to release me and leave me alone. Her eyes were so close, so close I felt the heat and the pain and the agony of her own heart. Her own breath. Her own screams.

_Isthalla… little Isthalla._

_My Little, foolish Isthalla._

"ISTHALLA!" I stopped mid-breath as my eyes flew open and I found myself staring up at the ceiling. My voice hurt, and in the back of my ringing mind I felt the sensation of a freshly-broken scream on its last leg, fading away. My heart was pounding, skin on fire. Head cleaved in two. My eyes flew to who held me down, and found a pair of terrified brown eyes.

"C-Cullen?" I trembled, too terrified to believe I was awake now. It had all felt so real, seemed so real. How had I ended up here? I couldn't have fallen asleep; this was a trap. I still felt the hair on my body standing on end, and every muscle still contracted and tensed in preparation to strike and to withdraw all at once. He screwed up his face and stared at me in a way I still could not understand. I could not even think about it. I couldn't-

"I-Isthalla," he choked out. His voice sounded withered beyond his age and worn like sandpaper. It sounded like he'd been screaming at me until his voice had become hoarse. Perhaps he had. I noticed a dampened, red spot on his forehead and felt my entire attention suddenly shift to the fact he was hurt.

"You're bleeding," I noted. The first thing that came to my mind. I looked back at him, and wondered if he was either going to cry or scream. It looked like both. He did neither, and merely fell back into his chair with a great, shuddering breath of what was either exasperation or pure relief. He looked exhausted.

"Maker…" was the only thing I heard him whisper into his hands while bowing his head to hide, to curl up and keep his face shielded from me by his armor. I still felt the reeling effects on me, but wearing away with each passing second I remembered I was awake now. It had been a dream-nothing but a bad dream. My attention moved from worrying about Cullen attacking me to the fact I might have accidentally broken something without realizing it-and while asleep, no less. Even I didn't think I was capable of such things.

"Cullen?" I tested, reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder and make sure he would not collapse or shatter into a thousand pieces. The moment my fingers brushed his armor, he jolted and shoved the chair back a good foot. His eyes flew up to me, casting fear and mistrust in my direction. I felt suddenly so wounded by that look, that same look I'd brushed off as annoying at least three times since yesterday morning when I had my Harrowing. So why was it so hurtful now?

Because he looked at me with a different fear now. A fear that labeled me as a danger, and as a threat to himself and to others. It was the look of a templar considering that split-second decision if I should be labeled an abomination and put to a miserable death for something I still was not entirely aware of.

Even after he realized I was not hurting him, he still kept himself away, and only allowed a little faltering to come upon his expression, but did not recoil. Maker's _breath_, what had I done to the man? I was as terrified as he was, yet he looked at me like I was prepared to suck out his soul.

"P-Please-" he began in a choke, then stopped himself. He was breathing so quickly, so fearfully I still had that nagging curiosity as to why he seemed so exhausted. He was sweating, his eyes wearied. His voice still sounded dry and overused. He held out a hand to me as if to keep me away, then dropped it when I silently noted that he was shaking. He swallowed hard. "A-Are you… awake now?" he tested. He was slowly coming back down from whatever pitch he'd been on, as was I. I wrinkled my forehead.

"Of course I am," I answered mindlessly. I did not understand why he was asking such dumb questions, now that my mind was becoming my own again. I shook my head to rid it of the splitting pain and numb voices. They needed to leave me alone for a while. "How would I be asleep when I am clearly awake, templar?" I asked irritably while putting a hand to my head and shutting my eyes away from the candlelight. The light burned my head, my eyes, and my skin. It hurt to look at it. I sighed.

"Are you... sure?" he asked again. Still that tentative fear in his voice; I was really beginning to get annoyed now that I was fully awake and aware of my world-and oh, what an unsettling world it was. The questions came back with biting force. Asking. Prodding. Annoying.

"Must I write a consent form so that your foolish inquiries may be settled?" I snapped while continuously rubbing my temples. My eyes flicked up to find his face in the candlelight. His fear turned into confusion, and back to that familiar and less-annoying expression of sheepish disgruntlement. I could handle _that _side of him at least a little better.

He shook his head, unable to form the words. It was a foolish, dumb reply. Despite the normality returning to such a situation, as well as the familiarity of such bickering, I could not ignore what I'd seen in his eyes when I'd awoken. Something… was wrong. I needed to know before he got smart enough not to tell me and instead report it to his captain.

"Cullen," I asked uneasily after a long, uncomfortable pause. He'd seemed to gather himself enough to form sentences (I hoped), and answered my call with an obedient turn of his head to look at me. His eyes were honest and pleading-full of puppy-dog loyalty I remembered well. "I-" my words stopped short as I chewed on my tongue and considered the nicest way to ask. Was there a nice way? I wasn't very familiar with it.

"Are you… uh…. Okay?" That could've gone better. Now _I_ sounded dumb and foolish. Great. I was intending to try and sound… sincere. Yet my sincerity seemed to be overshadowed by an icy awkwardness I could never escape, leaving my words as nothing more than a dumb, meaningless utter. A deeply confused frown pulled on Cullen's lips.

"_Me_?" he asked, shocked. My split second of sincerity was quickly shot through by ferocious impatience. Oh, for the love of-! _Why, _in _Maker's name_, did _every single blasted templar _have to be such a stuttering, mindless _buffoon? _And for another thing, _why _did everyone still insist on looking at me like that? Talking to me in such a manner? Like they would burst into tears or scream at any moment! Honestly, I was sick of it. Sick of Cullen and his stupid, foolish, ridiculous little frown and puppy-dog expression that made me want to shoot a fire curse up his arse. _Then _he'd have something to make such a stupid face about.

"_Yes, _you! Cullen, Templar. Stuffed-up-arse! Chantry boy! However you like it! Last time I checked you were the only other person in this room!" I barked. "Is it so shocking I wish to ask why you were, _yet again_, hovering over me like a demented child looking as if he were about to be gobbled up by a wolf? Why you were _, yet again,_ in my room _at night_, watching me sleep!" I shouted.

Either I'd finally offended him or he was too stupid to answer. Either way I didn't care. I was irritable, I hadn't slept very well, and I had had just about enough with the whole damn thing. I was ready for this supposed inside whispers about my Harrowing that I clearly wasn't allowed to know about to be over.

My snarl faded to a faint frown when he didn't respond. He simply stared, and continued to stare after that. Even after my anger had faded to irritation, and even after that had faded into mere indifference. It was at the point I sunk back onto to bed and laid my head on the pillow, sighing out the rest of my frustrations that he dared even move again.

I heard his chair creak as he shifted it to sit back by my bedside, and the sound of his armor clinked as he moved to lean forward and rest his elbows on his knees. I shut my eyes.

"Are we alone?" I murmured in a weary, empty voice. Cullen nodded.

"Yes, well enough," he spoke. I felt the pressure rise just slightly in my chest as I considered what I was about to do.

"Can I tell you something?" I asked after another too-long pause of silence. He waited to see if it was a trick question, then slowly nodded, unsure.

"..I-If you like." I had a random, brief thought that his stutter was actually kind of sweet. It suited him, however ridiculous it may be. Cullen. Stutter. Seemed to fit together like magic.

_Magic.._

I sighed then mustered, "If I tell you something, can you promise it's just between us?" I had hope that my request might fall on intent ears, that for once he would ignore the blaring protocol I knew too well when reciting such a statement. I even managed to give him a pleading glance, but I saw the twist of confusion between duty and friendliness falling on deaf ears.

"You know I cannot make that promise," he whispered. "If it is something that could endanger anyone, protocol demands I-"

"..demands that you report it to your superior. Yes, I know," I groaned. I let the consideration sink in, and weighed the possibility of getting in trouble. Well, I couldn't be any worse-off than I was at this point, being babysat by a templar all hours of the day (and night, apparently). As it was, I was in trouble already. It didn't really matter much if I told him about some silly little dreams I'd had.

"..B-But I'll do my best to believe what you tell me is nothing harmful to the others in the tower," he added. A nice thought. I covered back over my eyes with my forearm to block out the light and try and rid myself of the headache and fever. A sigh escaped my lips.

"I've been having these.. dreams.." I began. Wow, riveting start. Very articulate, he's sure not to believe you're a lunatic now. I bit my tongue for good measure and continued on, praying to the Maker for more literacy and poise in my sentences than that rubbish babble. I heard him shift forward in anticipation.

"Not that they mean anything," I added quickly, "but, I dream of the same thing, over and over. There's a woman in my dreams." The dreams I began to recall as if a vivid memory, so clear-cut and precise I could map out every strand of her raven hair, each little wrinkle-line at the edge of her lips where she use to smile. A hauntingly familiar woman I did not know the name of, and feared to know all at once.

"A… woman?" Cullen asked tentatively. I removed my arm to look at him and found a peculiar, slightly embarrassed look on his face. Oh, _Maker_-

"Honestly, do you really think I'd tell you if I had a dream like _that!"_ I hissed. His face went red.

"Well, I-I," he began to stumble all over his words. For Maker's sake! I couldn't believe him. Too irritated by the prospect of taking my precious time to be annoyed about it, I shoved my thoughts to the side and continued on, ignoring the fact he was turning a completely new shade of crimson by the very minute.

"Your _wandering fantasies aside,_" I scolded, "it's not a dream, even. I'd call it more like a nightmare, because it's the same scenes, the same moments. And every time I feel closer and farther away with each new change I discover. It's like a… riddle."

I was sitting up now, my eyes wide with racing thoughts and recalled a few scenes from the dreams to him. I had my hands clasping my skull as if expecting to pull the memories out with my fingertips to show them to him. My eyes darted back and forth.

"I can't wrap my mind around it; I can't seem to. Though the only singular thing I know is that she was a blood mage. Or this woman, in my dreams. Something about blood mages, it has to be," I rambled on, her face becoming more vivid with every second I continued to describe her to Cullen. _Pale skin, long, elegant fingers, a little sneer on the corner of her red lips. Dark, penetrating eyes that glinted crimson under the sunlight. Red symbols. Something about red. Red. So much of it._

It was the point I was rocking back and forth and clutching my head, trying to find her name, something invisible I couldn't grasp, that I fell back to reality and felt an armored hand brush my arm. I looked up and found myself staring at the slightly uneasy face of Cullen. He looked pale.

"Isthalla you… do realize what you're saying?" he asked in a small whisper. I furrowed my brow.

"What, that I seem to be plagued by dreams about some woman I don't even know?" I retorted incredulously. Cullen's shock only deepened.

"A b-blood mage," he forced out the words like a poison on his lips. I frowned.

"Okay, a magical woman in my dreams who happens to be a blood mage," I offered with a blunt shrug. This didn't seem to satisfy him, and instead he reacted by shaking his head and burying it into his hands with a scoff.

"I just… can't seem to grasp this," he sighed. "You don't know her?" he asked. I frowned and screwed up my expression.

"No?" I said. "She's a figment of my imagination, Cullen. Not real." He didn't seem entirely convinced.

"You're sure?" he asked again. The words echoed in my mind and again, I felt that familiar stab of shallow fear. A remembered voice that whispered in the back of my mind.

_You don't remember me, do you?_

"N-No," I forced out before I felt the pause completely leave me. Cullen _really _didn't seem convinced now. I could see the tentative, unwilling expression in his eyes and the taut form of his mouth, but before he had a chance to speak up another templar stepped forward into the candlelight and crowded my bedroom one too many.

"I'm here to relieve you for the twilight hour shift," he announced once his clunky, irritatingly loud metal had let us know just how important he was. I winced.

"Wonderful! Yet more talking suits of armor to make sure I don't breath incorrectly. Am I allowed to at least change my undergarments in privacy?" I asked as the entire mood and expression of the room shifted, engrossed with sudden irritability up the arse. My flat, unamused expression seemed to compel the new templar into a new type of disgust even I wasn't aware of. Even more prude than Greagoir, by the looks of it. He seemed entirely unamused by my jokes, and even worse-he didn't look like the very talkative type. Great, I'd have a bloody brick wall for my next babysitter. Cullen was a least a little more interesting for conversation. _Cullen-_

I grabbed his arm before he could follow suit and exit around the side of the bookcase with the other templar. He jumped at my touch and turned to look at me, full of a questioning fear and subtle something-else I didn't quite know how to place. I frowned a bit.

Nothing needed to be said, only a look. A penetrating, challenging, _keep-this-to-yourself _look that seemed to get the proper message across and ended with a small grimace as he broke away from my grasp and followed after the other templar. I smiled once he left my line of vision and disappeared around the corner.

In truth, I never did find the templar boys to be a very bright lot. You would assume after fourteen years they would have caught on when I was lying to get what I wanted and when I was actually being sincere (which was less than never). I waited until I heard Cullen's dragging, reluctant footsteps exiting into the main hallway to turn and whisper a small, secretive incantation into my hands as I pulled out a small bag and tossed in on the floor. A black smoke erupted and bloomed up to the ceiling almost instantly.

A few seconds later the other templar finally got the sense knocked into him to come speeding back around the corner, but by then the smoke was already in the air and I'd disappeared, right past his grabbing hands and out into the cover of darkness in the hallway. I almost wanted to point and laugh at his stupidity, but it seemed like a waste of time. I stole a glance back at Cullen, who only offered a baffled, gawking look at me as I flashed by him and grinned, then streaked down the hallway and into the darkness, merging within it as a ghost. Poor thing. He had so much to learn still. A lot, in fact.

_A terrible amount. _

But for now, it was time for a midnight visit to an old friend.


	6. The Dance

_Of all the monsters that go bump in the night, I am one of them._

_Clever girl_ she whispered. I could hear the fading calls from the Templar down the hall. I continued to seep into the shadows, merging with them until I became an invisible monster sliding against the stone walls. I could hear my own breathing, and as I crept deeper into the mouth of darkness, her voice became clearer, more distinct. Less of a faded, slight insanity and more of an elaborate annoyance.

_Clever, Brilliant Isthalla._

I continued down the hallway, trying to bury the voice back away into my subconscious where it wouldn't distract me. It was giving me a headache. I didn't care where or who it was coming from; maybe some incantation I'd been rigged with as a joke by some of my former bunkmates. Perhaps a result of the lyrium, I didn't know. I just wanted it to leave.

"Go away," I mumbled when the whispering coos and chuckles became too much. I swatted my hand in front of my face, as if I expected my newfound imaginary cling-on to go away like a mosquito. At least they were less annoying.

"Is that all you ever have to say to me?" a male voice hissed back from an open doorway. I jumped a good foot away and immediately held out my lit wand to find a rather startled Jowan trying to blink away the heavy glow. My surprise instantly turned into irritation as I sent him a nasty glare.

"Jowan!" I snapped under my breath, "Stop doing that!" I dragged him by the arm back into the library where he'd so easily conjured himself from. He chuckled and wriggled out of my grasp, turning around.

"What? Did I scare you?" he mused while raising an eyebrow.

_Isthalla… Isthallaaa…_

I took a sharp breath in and turned around in a circle while holding out the glowing end of the wand. Where the hell was she? This was beginning to make my skin crawl.

"Isthalla?" I jerked back around and stared at Jowan wide-eyed. My name, spoken so many times. This had to be a joke, it had to be. That or I was losing my mind.

_Isthallllaaa…_

She was singing now, and despite how that would have otherwise been a simple irritation to me any other day (and during the day, not night), it crept under my skin and crawled there until I felt a chill run through me. Something so.. Utterly unnerving about her voice that drove a stake of fear into my heart. I was turning around in circles when I felt a cold hand clamp on my arm, and gasped before jumping around.

"Isthalla," Jowan repeated, this time firmer. I fell short when I saw his worried face staring back at me and brow creased together. "Isthalla, what's wrong?" I felt dizzy.

"I-I dunno," I breathed out. It felt as if the wind had been knocked out of my lungs. I took a deep, heavy inhale and placed a hand to my chest. My air felt restricted. Why couldn't I breathe? "I-"

_Isthallllllaaaaaa…_

She laughed this time, again it was like a distant echo from a chamber somewhere in the confines of my mind. I squeezed my eyes shut and shifted my shaking hand over my forehead. A cold sweat dampened my skin. I heard laughter. Two voices.

_Make them dance, Isthalla… _

"Isthalla!" was the last shout I heard before a weakness took over me like a wave and I crashed, deep into the darkness and the sound of her voice, humming a soft tune in my head.

"_Dear Isthalla, how are we today?" Creviced hands shaping around mine, around small, innocent hands as we shaped it. A glow formed, red and sparkling and beautiful, then grew into an elaborate shape threaded between our fingers. Her chin rested on the nook of my small shoulder. I could feel her laugh lines as she stretched a wide smile across her lips._

"_Isthalla, it is lovely," she murmured into my hair. Soft, sweet, melodic voice. Like satin. Like poison. My head tilted back as I offered a child's smile back at her with awkward, big teeth and bright eyes. She was everything lovely, with hair dark as coal and eyes like fire. Another perfected grin slipped across her red lips, and she tilted my head back to our hands and cooed to me in her melodic Antivan accent._

"_Now focus, focus. To control you must overcome and let go," she whispered. "Confide in your ability to control what is around you. This will hurt a little."_

_A small, harmless silver knife. It fit so perfectly into my palm. The silver glinted off from the shafted light coming in through the thatched wooden roof, then it turned crimson. A sharp pain. Her hands moved to hold out to the small pair of birds shuffling about on the floor with broken wings._

_Why are your wings broken. Why did you break them?_

"_Now," she said. Fear. Heat. Terror. Anger. "Make them dance, Isthalla. Make them dance."_

_I reached down to find my hands soaked in red._

"Is she going to be all right?"

"I have done what I can for her, all that remains is her own strength. You knew the consequences to this, Irving." Clarity. Voices.

I kept my eyes closed to listen in to the conversation, wondering if I was still asleep or in the waking world. My body felt too weak to move anyway. I heard a chair creak under the weight of a body sitting down to rest, followed by swift, quiet footsteps against a rug. A pause followed.

"I had lived under the illusion that perhaps what I'd done was enough. Sadly I wish the templar had not reported what she'd told him about her nightmare. It seems I will be the last one to deny the truth," Irving muttered. His voice sounded dry and weary. Aged beyond what I had heard before. Another pause, and I imagined Wynne placing a hand on his shoulder.

"It was the right thing to do. Perhaps not the happiest truth, but the truth nonetheless," Wynne offered. I heard a deep sigh from the First Enchanter, and another creak of the chair as he shifted in his seat.

"What would they have me do, Wynne?" Irving said, the strain and weakness leaking through his voice. Even to my blind eyes, I could see the worry. The frustration. The tension was beginning to build up in my chest like a spring, clawing at me to spring out of my bed and demand to know what they were talking about, and what was going on. I could feel my pulse beginning to pound against my ribs, and feared they could hear it as loudly as I did. I forced myself to remain motionless and listen. To listen and suffer through the torment was better than knowing nothing at all.

Wynne said nothing, giving me more reason to feel a tightening panic in my chest. I felt the beginnings of a nagging sensation something was terribly wrong. I was no longer safe in the walls of the tower. Irving spoke up and answered his own question after Wynne's silent response.

"They would order her Rite upon word… or death, I presume, as the alternative," he muttered. "I imagine she would find the second option more tolerable," he added. His voice was flat and heartless, musing upon the cold demeanor of the faceless "they" I knew to be templars.

"She's strong, Irving. Perhaps…" Wynne trailed off, but just as she was about to finish her sentence, I heard a loud door slam at the end of the hall that nearly ruptured me from my bed. My eyes instantly flew open to find Greagoir storming into the infirmary wing with two templars storming at his heels, all dressed up in their metal garb. Wynne and Irving must have been startled enough to not notice that I jumped, so I forced my eyes back shut to hang onto the secret conversations as long as I could.

"Do mind that you are in a hospital wing for the injured!" Wynne scolded.

"I mind that you still keep that _abomination _inside the walls of this tower!" Greagoir's voice boomed over them all, echoing off the hushed stone walls and probably out into the open hallway for all to hear. I heard uncomfortable shifts of suit armor behind him as a heavy silence followed his accusation.

"How could you-" I heard Wynne's snappy voice pipe up, then fall short as a soft pair of footsteps moved in front of her.

"Commander, I would prefer we speak about this in my office where our shouting is a bit more subtly made," Irving chose. Effectively neutral, as always. However, if I'd ever known the captain, I knew him as a very hot-headed, up-arse templar more than all of the tower templar boys combined.

"There is nothing to discuss! Either the Rite of Tranquility or put her to death; preferably the second! I will not have her endangering any more innocent lives at this tower!" he snarled.

"Perhaps you mean _your _templars then?" I heard a snide voice remark back. Wynne. More shuffling of footsteps. Tension.

"Yes, _my _templars!" he continued on in a shout. "_My _templars, as in one she nearly killed, the _five _it took to restrain her during her Harrowing, and _another _she could have easily killed in her sleep!" I felt a sharp pricking in my brain, itching at my fingertips to put the nastiest hex I could conjure on Greagoir's face right at that moment. I hated him. I felt an unexplainable anger rising that whispered to hurt him. Hate him. I hated him as much as he hated me, if not more. Right now, probably more.

"CAPTAIN!" Irving boomed. I jumped again, unaccustomed to the sound of Irving's anger. I'd never heard him shout. Never. Assuming it had been longer since Greagoir had too, the room fell silent for a moment to soak in the new grounds on which Irving stood.

"I _remarkably _ask, _again,_ that you follow me to a private chamber so that we may discuss this _elsewhere_." The words were an order, no longer a command. I could not see their expressions nor gestures, but rather lay silently while awaiting for Greagoir to ignore Irving and continue on shouting until his head popped off. Silence followed, then the sound of shifting metal and footsteps as the room emptied and the air felt suddenly lighter. They left.

And I felt more confused and frightened than ever as I sat up alone in my bed and stared after the blank space where they had stood.

Before I even had the chance to let the shock absorb into my mind, the door crept back open and I saw a robed figure dart into the room. I sat up, rigid, in my bed and opened my eyes completely. My heart skipped a beat.

"Who's there?" I bellowed as loudly as I could. Fear betrayed my voice, shadowed over by the knowledge that I knew I was in no state to defend myself, should some ghoul or demon come to devour me in my weak state. I had nothing but my words, and what a lack of words I had come to on this day.

"_Shhh_!" a male voice hissed. "Do you want them to know I'm here?" My face lit up in an instant as I jumped to my feet to greet the man creeping around the bookcase to my bedside.

"_Jowan!_" I cried while burying myself into his arms. He shushed me again and quickly guided me back to my bedside, casting fearful eyes over his shoulder before kneeling next to me. His face looked breathless and panicked. His eyes were weary-he didn't look like he'd slept much. My smile quickly disappeared.

"Jowa-are you okay?" I asked. Suddenly it mattered that he looked at me that way; the same look everyone had given me, but made his important. His expression drove alarm into my heart and awakened me. I rested my hand on his face. I saw him visibly soften a bit at my touch-the romantic-then frown harder as he grabbed me by the arms.

"No, not really," he complained. "They've been keeping you locked up like some damned animal in here; won't let anyone see you! I had to sneak in, you know." He made a point to let me know he actually had to struggle to do something for once. I smiled and rested my forehead against his. I felt safe and warm; comforted, even, by the embrace. He ran a fond hand through my hair before gently moving me away again.

"Listen, I don't have much time before your new best friends come back," he started. I raised an unimpressed brow at his "clever" comment before letting him continue.

"I need to talk to you about something," he said. I frowned.

"What is it?" Answers, maybe? Something Jowan knew about that absolutely everyone else seemed to refuse to tell me-even Cullen? I leaned forward with keen interest and grabbed him by the shoulder.

"Tell me now, Jowan-" He shook his head.

"No time," he rushed while looking over his shoulder. I followed his gaze, and heard the muffled sound of voices. Damn it all.

"Meet me tomorrow evening in the Chantry; after curfew," he said. My face instantly screwed up in confusion and ill memories of my last visit.

"I'd rather not-" I began, but he cut me off.

"Don't argue, just _please _trust me. Be there," were his last pleas before he placed a quick kiss on my hand and slipped around the bookcase just in time. I could hear the doors of the hospital wing groan open, followed by the sound of two templar boys' voices-neither which I recognized-as they trotted down the hallway amidst a very important conversation regarding the size of Sister Leah's bosom. I listened until their voices faded and they exited out the side door to the south of the Hospital Wing. Silence followed.

As my attention span came back down from a pitch of heightened awareness, I felt my body loosen again. No templars to distract me, no Irving or Greagoir, no Cullen, and especially no voices. At least not a terrible amount. I sunk back into my bed with grateful need, and shut the dead weight of my lids to slip into a much-needed comatose of sleep.


	7. Grey

"Isthalla," the voice prodded me again. I began to lumber out of a perfectly good sleep. I groaned.

"Isthalla," the voice asked again, this time a bit more important. My head was under the pillow.

"Go away, Cullen," I hissed from under my arm. I wanted to sleep. Let the world wait. Sleep first. A silence followed-a hopeful silence I happily allowed to be my answer as I sunk back under the cavern of my pillow and tried to slip back into peaceful dreams before the voice reared its ugly head again.

I was nearly into my blissful coma once more when a hand reached out and roughly shook me. This riled me. I exploded from under my covers in a fit of hissing and groaning, locking my accusatory gaze on whoever-whatever-had dared disturb me. My glare felt short when I found a rather pertinent Wynne glaring right back at me.

"You are certainly one for the temper," she commented while crossing her arms. I blinked up at her like a bear awoken from its sleep-disgruntled, unsure, and lingering on the decision of whether or not it was worth it to be pissed off. I decided it took too much energy.

"Where's Cullen?" were the first words that blurted from my mouth. Immediately I regretted them once my sleep-fogged brain began to send out conscious signals to my mouth. I groaned again-knowing my choice of words had been a mistake-and hoped Wynne wasn't the type for taunting. I looked up to find a secret, bemused grin on her face. Irritating old bat.

"Were you expecting him?" she asked, her voice colored with amusement and surprise. I frowned in a rather unattractive way-that of a troll's frown-and muttered a quiet "no" before stumbling over to my trunk in search of robes. She dropped the tender issue as easily (and accidentally) as it had arose. Thank the Maker it wasn't Jowan standing there. I would have never heard the end of it for weeks.

_If you are around that long.._

I groaned again-almost a shriek this time-as the blasted, imaginary voice of the woman returned with a vengeance. Couldn't she leave me alone? Though it was more faint than the day prior, I still did not have the patience to deal with it right after waking up. I squinted down into the trunk and fished around until my hands found a garment and yanked it out. Still ignoring Wynne, I tottered over to my bed and began undressing, uncaring if Wynne was still standing in my room. That was her issue, not mine.

As I turned around while tugging the last of my robes over my head, I found her standing quite unimpressed near my vanity with her arms tightly crossed. A familiar, taut expression filtered over her face, that which told me _I don't find your shameless actions very amusing_. Thankfully, I didn't find the old bat's airy sense of superiority very flattering either. I huffed and flopped back on my bed before turning and looking at her, impatient and expectant.

"So-" I began, looking around my room for some clue as to why she might be here. Did I leave some of my illegal potions out? Any stolen powders? No, none that I could see. When no evidence could be found of any petty misdemeanor, I flashed wide, bashful eyes up at the senior enchanter and bared an irritated smile at her.

"What do you want?"

I saw irritation twitch on her features, then quickly bury back down as she bit her tongue from whatever snide comment she'd been begging to make. I wanted to laugh. Why bother? It's not like it would hurt my precious little feelings anyway, that much was certain.

"Well aside from your _shameless _attitude, I was sent to tell you Irving needs to see you in his office," she nodded smartly. She raised a knowing brow and added, "_Now _would be best." I tried to hold back a snort as she walked away, but it slipped. She fell short in her step and slowly turned to look at me.

"Also-" she had a sly smile on her face as she turned back around and took a step forward. " You would do well to put on better manners if you wish to impress that templar friend of yours." A secretive grin slipped onto her lips as she turned and trotted away without another word, leaving me with an absolutely stunned smile of surprise on mine.

That sly witch.

_Shockingly_, I did not have an escort to Irving's office as I had expected. Yesterday's events were more than enough to send me on edge, but the sudden absence of plated guards somewhat alarmed me, even disturbed me in a sense. Clearly something had changed-and whether that something was good or bad would probably be revealed in my visit to Irving's office.

I felt a knot tighten in my chest as I ascended to the Tower level where his office resided. I strode quickly and quietly past guards, wondering if they knew my face or knew if I was supposed to be out of my room, alone, and unsupervised. They made no move to stop me, not even when I recognized the guard from the other night that had come to relieve Cullen of duty. A slightly sickened sneer on his face, perhaps, but he made no move to stop me. Confusion began to take hold of my mind once more.

As I came to a slow walk outside of Irving's office, I could hear voices inside. The door was ajar, allowing me to come to a stop just out of the line of vision where I could eavesdrop-for the moment. An entirely unfamiliar male voice spoke up from inside.

"And as you are aware, this is a very serious issue that I cannot take lightly, Irving," the man said.

"Yes, yes I understand. There are _many _others quite capable of the task, though, Duncan I must beg your consideration-"

"I will not change my mind."

"An asset of your person I will not quickly forget," Irving chuckled. I heard the struggle in his voice. Something was upsetting him. "But you must understand; she is in a very delicate and dangerous state-" Irving fell short when his eyes turned to the doorway and found mine, barely peering around the corner to get a look at the stranger. Blast my damned curiosity.

"Come in, Isthalla! No need to stand outside the doorway like a frightened child," Irving welcomed with a wide, fond smile and a laugh. I recoiled and slowly stepped inside the room, feeling fearful and wary of this stranger. I eyed him cautiously as I approached-he was a tall, proud man with dark skin like the Chasind and eyes equally as dark; wary and calculating. He sized me up as well with a quick, meaningless glance I knew to be important. I frowned.

"Who is this?" I nodded amidst noticing that he was also human. I felt an instant disliking for the man. I wanted him gone.

"Isthalla," Irving laughed, "do not be so cruel. Duncan is a very good friend of mine, and a very honorable man. You owe him some respect-truly, I apologize, Duncan-"

"Not to worry," Duncan said lightly while eyeing me. Even the woman in my head didn't like him. She was hissing and screeching his name like a banshee. My eyes narrowed.

"As I said before she's a bit of a handful when it comes to conversation," Irving jested while stepping to the side to present me. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck beginning to rise; Irving was too happy to see me. Something wasn't right, and that something was pinning directly on this tall, arrogant stranger with the over-wary eyes that kept scanning me up and down like livestock he was preparing to buy. I frowned.

"I was told you wanted to see me, First Enchanter," I chose while decisively turning my attention fully on Irving. I could at least afford to ignore the stranger. Continuing to let his unnerving stare dig under my skin accomplished nothing. If anything, it might deter him from whatever he was intending to do with me-that of which I was still very much unaware of.

"Yes, dear girl I did," Irving said. He held out a hand to Duncan, forcing my eyes to, again, turn to the stranger and glare. "This is Duncan, the Grey Warden." Grey Warden. Why didn't that sound familiar?

"Grey Warden?" I echoed in an unimpressed, challenging tone. Duncan seemed to take me up on my offer and stepped forward, crossing his arms behind his back.

"Yes, I lead a group of trained soldiers to defend Ferelden during what we would call a Blight," he answered importantly. I furrowed my brow, vaguely recognizing the term "blight" but unable to connect it to his title.

"So what are you doing here?" I asked bluntly. Irving stepped in at this point, waving an apologetic hand and smiling.

"U-Uh no need to worry about that now, Isthalla-" he took me by the arm and lightly guided me a good foot away. "Plenty of time to discuss matters of the Grey Wardens later."

"I'm looking for recruits," Duncan answered plainly. Obviously he did not know the protocol of Irving's meaning for _drop this immediately_ in terms of conversation. I almost liked the man for a moment; he was bold, which was a feature I had to admire in another. A small, flickering smile tinted my lips before disappearing completely.

"Now that we have introduced Duncan-" Irving cut in, turning his demanding gaze on me. "I'd like to introduce you," he said while nodding at Duncan.

"Duncan, this is our newest mage to the Circle-Isthalla," Irving boasted proudly. I felt a swell of appreciation brim in my chest from Irving's compliment. It was possibly the first time the completion of my Harrowing produced a positive comment, and no less than from the First Enchanter himself.

"No doubt fresh from your Harrowing," Duncan commented while taking a step towards me and nodding in respect. "Pleased to meet you, Isthalla, and congratulations." I bowed back, hesitantly, and straightened back up with a curious frown on my face. I wasn't sure what to make of Duncan; he, like Irving, had a sense of neutral power about him that I could not hate. I felt a shred of respect for the man whisper through my mind. For now, my judgment on him would wait, but I still did not like him.

"I asked you to come up here so that I may present you with these-" My attention turned back to Irving just as he stepped forward with a neatly-pressed set of robes in his arms. I blinked stupidly and took the robes in my hands, not sure what to do with them. "Now that you are a mage," he continued while turning back around to shuffle for something behind his desk. "It was time you were allowed the proper-" More shuffling, a small grunt.

"-_embellishments_ that follow with the title of a mage," he finally finished while retrieving a tall, wooden staff from what seemed to be a very difficult wedge behind his chair. He handed the staff over to me, breathless and smiling. I looked down at the gifts, unsure of what to make of them, then turned back to Irving with a frown on my face.

"Thank you" is what I wanted to say. Something to show my appreciation for all he had done for me as my teacher, my mentor, and my leader. In front of this human stranger it made it more than difficult to show such sympathies, but I was able to share a private, knowing smile instead before turning back towards the door.

"Oh, and Isthalla!-" Irving called. I swung back around to face him and perked. Irving stepped forward with Duncan in his wake. "Might I ask one more thing of you before you head back downstairs?" Anything. Sure.

"Show Duncan to the guests quarters, will you?"

Any other day, _any _other day but this one-I would have refused. A troubled, unhappy look pulled on my face, but I did not argue. Instead, I neatly set the pile of robes on a nearby table-along with the staff-and wordlessly stepped out the door with Duncan right behind me.

The walk was awkward, nonetheless, and I felt the same prickling sensation he was staring at me as I walked ahead, quickly, and strode towards the open door of the guest's quarters. As I stood silent in the doorway, I waited until he ushered himself past and into the room before preparing to leave.

"You share quite a bond with your teacher, don't you?" he spoke up. I halted mid-step and tried to refrain from sighing. He just wouldn't drop it, would he?

"I suppose," I offered guardedly while turning back around to face him. Duncan busied himself with removing his sword belt and laying out his weapons across the top of the bed. I glanced down at the long silver sword and red dagger. Sharp, penetrative shards of metal. I wondered how well he could use them.

"I have been friends with Irving for quite a long time," he began. Oh great, he was going to give me a complete history of their relationship. I didn't feel a very pressing need to stick around for the monologue, but forced by Irving's kindness-blast the man-I leaned against the doorframe and crossed my arms in irritation. Duncan pretended not to notice.

"Where I have helped him on many an occasion, he has also assisted me greatly in the past," he continued while pulling off another weapon belt containing some health poultices, throwing knives, and a pouch containing whatever he deemed fit. I shrugged.

"Irving is a good man." This was something I could say honestly, though not lightly. Compliments were not in my nature, and even as the words left my lips they felt strange to be told to a man I barely knew. I frowned distinctly and decided I didn't like talking about Irving in front of Duncan.

"What are you doing here, truly?" I begged to ask the question. My curiosity was now beginning to take a gnawing hold of me the longer I stood in that doorway eyeing the mysterious man dressed in the strange armor. Duncan turned then, his attention drawn, and looked me straight in the eyes without a flicker of an expression.

"As I said-I seek recruits," he said again. I fleetingly admired the power to his voice. Not many humans I knew had such proud gazes, yet he looked directly at you. There was no fear, at least not in his eyes. Perhaps Irving's faith was not ill-placed after all. I smirked.

"I thought you said you only go to war when there is a Blight," I remarked back.

"I do-Well, as in-we as Grey Wardens _are_-" he cut in without a single pause. My smirk was quickly wiped off my face as I straightened up and unfolded my arms.

"What? You mean to say-"

"That there is a Blight? Yes, that is exactly what I am saying." he finished my sentence.

"You're joking," I laughed. This human could not be serious. He was off his bloody pedestal, wasn't he? The expression he met me with was anything but joking, and quickly erased the smile off my own face.

"I'm afraid I am very serious," he replied while turning to face me again. I took a small, hesitant step into the room.

"What.. is a blight?" I forced the words out of my mouth, though they stung as I spoke them. I hated showing weakness to a stranger-especially a human-but my curiosity had the best of me. Something told me though that Duncan would not hold my lack of knowledge against me.

"Have you ever heard of darkspawn?" The remarkable question rang in my ears like a well-remembered nightmare.

"Yes," I replied.

"I have."


	8. Family Curse

I left the Grey Warden's quarters more confused than enlightened, still swimming with the thoughts of darkspawn and all the nonsense surrounding it. What did I know of a blight? Much less of the outside world. My world was within these walls, a cage as well as the only fortress standing between me and whatever was out there. By the sound of it, the outside wasn't as great as I had (and many others) imagined. It made me want to go outside less, to be honest.

_Duncan the Grey. _

He was a strange man. I couldn't decide if it was arrogance or strength he so easily flaunted; I had never seen him in combat, so I might never know. Still, the curiosity compelled me. I didn't know what to make of him-tall, proud human creature that he was. I did not feel threatened by him, yet I had the creeping sensation that I should be.

I was so busy in my thoughts I barely noticed Cullen standing right in front of me.

"O-Oh hello.. I-Isthalla!" I blinked and looked up to find him looming over me with a dumb grin on his face. I frowned.

"Hello..?" I said back. I was busy; uninterested in whatever stuttery conversation he was looking to have with me (which would be none, I assure you). He fidgeted with his armor like a bashful five year old and glanced at the floor. I waited.

"H-How-I mean… are you-?" he stumbled over himself, well-remembered to my anger over his constant concern of my health. _I am fine, thank you. I always am. Quit asking_.

Though I had to hand it to the poor boy, he was trying at least. I would rather talk to him than any other templar, to be honest (though that wasn't saying much). He fell short, lost in his own comprehension of what might be the best thing to say to me. His brow creased in a slightly attractive way, then border-lined on appearing just plain upsetting. I mirrored the expression.

"Is everything all right?" he breathed out all at once.

Wow.

A full sentence without pausing. I felt impressed.

A sympathetic, withering smile flashed across my face as I turned to fully face him. What else did I have to do for the moment? I didn't much feel like taunting the poor thing; too much energy to waste on that. Conversation.. Maybe? Could we try that sort of thing?

"Well I suppose.." I started, my brow still furrowed lightly as I tried to work out what sort of expression he was going for. I gave up on '_unintentionally stupid looking_' and decided to move on. Cullen was not a strong conversation starter, which meant he was trying his _very best _to put on his big boy voice. I had to give him some due credit.

"O-Oh.. okay," he said, sounding crestfallen. I smirked. Was he expecting to hear my life had all gone to hell? That I might secretly be an abomination about to tear everyone limb from limb? Actually.. that would be much more interesting. I tilted my head to the side and crossed my arms.

"Cullen what do you know about all this?" I tempted myself; dare I ask? Maybe I could get him to slip up for once and tell me. I put on my best pleading expression I could, and saw him effectively recoil against it.

He really needed to get out more..

"A-About what?"

_Trying to play dumb, then? _I knew better.

"You know exactly what-" I lowered my voice and tone, demanding his cooperation. He straightened. "The templars. Greagoir. That Duncan fellow. What is all this nonsense about?" Cullen looked more confused than ever as he shook his head, bewildered, and dropped his arms at his sides.

"I-I don't know what you mean, Isthalla.." he replied with an empty shrug. He was unfortunately being honest.

Damn.

"They've been babysitting me all hours of the day, guarding my every move!" I tried. "Greagoir called me an abomination just yesterday, and now suddenly everyone is entirely absent as if it never happened?" I shook my head, incredulous.

"What happened to the guards? The threats? What _changed?_" I demanded. Cullen looked at me with a gawkish, surprised stare.

"He called you an _abomination_?" he demanded. I heard anger in his voice. I blinked and took a step back while unfolding my arms in surprise.

"Damned if I know," I said, shrugging, "the man never did like me. I dunno, I suppose he's too paranoid, old bastard…" I trailed off. I tried my best to recall the memory, back to the grave sound of Irving's voice and to Greagoir's rage. Nothing made sense, and trying to find answers seemed to result in more confusion. I found my eyes staring at Cullen's shifting armored boots, and looked up.

"Why haven't they been sending guards anymore?" I asked plainly. I locked my accusing eyes on Cullen. If anyone should know about it, he would. He tended to be around me more than any other templars; he should know if any other stalkers were to be stationed in my wake. This seemed to wake him up a bit, and with widened eyes he straightened again and swallowed something in his throat.

"I-I haven't I mean-heard anything," he shook his head vigorously. "No one has been told to watch you, a-aside from me of course." He turned a little red in the face, appearing as if he'd said too much, then blinked.

"You don't think that counts, do you?"

"I don't know," I sighed, frustrated. I tapped a finger to my lips then decisively nodded. "Walk with me." Walking helped me clear my thoughts. Cullen obeyed, following behind me as a happy dog does for it's master. I smiled when my back was turned.

We walked in silence for a few minutes; I spent that time thinking, occasionally turning to make sure Cullen was following. He walked shoulder-to-shoulder with me, a rather new development considering the man never got within a foot of me since the Chantry incident six months prior. Certainly was a skittish human, for a templar.

Now he seemed more at ease, nearly brushing his armor to my shoulder as we strolled through the hallway towards the first floor. My attention began to shift from thoughts of abominations and darkspawn to the fact how often he truly _was _around me. The man practically shadowed me, though I'd never stopped to think about it. In the library, the hallways, even outside our dormitories-I tended to run into him more than any other templar. _'Run into_' being the quite relevant term in that description-if I didn't know any better I might say it was on purpose.

I glanced up, briefly, but long enough to catch a fragment of his expression. He stared straight ahead-strict, yet calm-watching passerbys with alert features. We walked the tower at least once a week together, if not more depending on my mood; somehow it had become an unofficial meeting where we would sometimes converse. I usually spent it in silence, contemplating things whilst he followed a good few feet behind. Walking beside me, however-I admit I felt slightly distracted.

"Does this make your job easier?" I piped up after walking in silence for ten minutes. He straightened entirely too much in his armor and came to a dead halt to face me, his eyes wide.

"W-What do you mean?" I blinked up at him, then turned and stared at the hallway.

"Befriending mage-kind so you can justify their death.." I trailed off. A bit of hurt entered my voice at the end of the phrase, feeling slight betrayal that it could be the reason he'd chosen to do so. A templar could easily take advantage of any mage in that manner, whether it be for "justified" purposes or something crueler. I'd somehow believed Cullen was exempt from that horrible truth..

He seemed to relax at my response-I still wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not. I turned back to him, pleading and anxious, and frowned sadly.

"That seems like a cruel thing to do to a person, mage or no-" I glanced away, unable to look at someone and try to be sincere at the same time. "Even I don't condone twisting another person's humanity against them." Cullen looked at me, shocked.

"Really? Well that surprises me," he spoke quite seriously. I paused and stared long and hard at him, then finally glared and slapped him on the arm-a mistake considering he wore armor.

"Yo-_OW_! You cruel bastard!" I yelped as he let out a warm, quiet chuckle. My contorted expression instantly relaxed as I realized something-it was the _first _time I'd ever heard him laugh. I stared stupidly at him for too-long a moment, then shook my head and straightened back up.

"That wasn't funny.." I mumbled while crossing my arms and hunkering down into my own body. I could feel my ears falling down-a remarkably unfortunate trait of my faceless family's, I suppose, that my ears could give away my embarrassment. I turned to find a red-faced smile still widened on Cullen's face, and decided I couldn't be angry at him. Actually, I was surprised to find it made him look quite handsome. Laugh lines stretched on the corners of his lips, and his eyes looked less hardened. He looked kinder, allowing the strictness to-briefly-leave his features. He looked like a living being, for once.

"You're still a miserable old bastard, you bastard-" I grumbled while turning to stare at a wall instead. I didn't want him to see I had blushed.

"I-I'm sorry Isthalla," he smiled. "I only meant it in good fun." I believed him, unfortunately. My ears flattened more, and suddenly I felt too exposed. He fell quiet.

"But really, listen-" he reached out a hand and wrapped it lightly around my upper arm. I felt my body tense up as I prepared to yank it away, but recoiled instead and turned bewildered eyes to his face. _You just touched me._

"I need you to know-" he paused when I looked at him, and I saw his ears redden once more.

_Too bad yours don't flatten. _

He furrowed his brow in recession. "I would never do that to you; take a-advantage of you, I mean," he finished, his face still unsure what expression it held. I blinked in utter surprise.

"I don't ever want you to think I'd use you for that purpose; that's immoral." Suddenly the conversation was not so light-hearted. I felt exposed and entirely uncomfortable standing there in front of him-perhaps less than a foot away-with his eyes looking right through mine. My face had to be apple-red by now, damn it all. His face suddenly screwed up from the overbearing sincerity he'd just accustomed himself to and into a abruptly surprised look as something new filtered through his brain.

"D-Did you just-admit I was your _friend_?" he asked, baffled. My face lit up bright red.

"_NO!" _I yelped too quickly, slapping his hand off my arm and yanking it away. A wide smile crept onto his face.

"You did, didn't you!" he chuckled. It only made my ears flatten more as I tried to turn and hide my face.

"I never thought Isthalla the mage would consider a templar her friend," he mused in a misty voice. He was not taunting me, but to my horror I found him _admiring _me for what I had said. I couldn't stand another minute.

"I-I have to go," I stuttered out while my eyes rapidly searched for the quickest exit. His expression shifted to crestfallen, and my chest made a sudden, dropping lurch in response. I swallowed and crinkled my face, willing the strange sensation away.

"O-Oh.. all right," he said quietly. I pressed my mouth together in aggravation.

"I-I have to go meet-Jowan. I'm sorry, I-" I glanced at him, then quickly looked away and began jogging down the hall. I decided finishing that sentence was not worth it, and quickly darted down a staircase before my eyes could betray me and sneak another glance to see if he still looked upset.

_Why does it matter?_

I was barely down the last few stairs to the first level of the tower when I found myself smacking straight into another body. They reached out and grabbed me by the arms before I had I chance to catch myself.

"_Damn it _I-" I looked up and snarled. A rather familiar, cheeky face smiled back at me.

"-_DAMMIT_ JOWAN!"

He was laughing himself to death; bastard thought it was funny, did he?

"Shut your mouth or I'll hex it off!" I shrieked while shouldering past him. He fell to a low chuckle and followed after my stride effortlessly.

"Aren't you in an awful fluster?" he cooed. My brisk walk turned into a jog, which he easily matched with long, loping strides.

"Shut it," I snapped.

"And aren't you just as red as an apple? What happened, then?" he jeered. I elbowed him hard while making a swift turn for the library.

"_Shut it_," I hissed while shouldering past two bewildered magi exiting the library doors. Jowan waved at one of them before trampling after me inside of the library.

"Whoah, what's the rush there?" he stepped in front of me before I could reach the end of an aisle, blocking my escape and forcing me to look up. I shot my nastiest, most enraged _get out of my way _look I could, but it was no use. He was entirely too interested in my business, the idiot.

"Greagoir didn't say something awful to you, did he? I'll go beat the Maker right out of him if you like," he tried. I crossed my arms and glared at a bookcase.

"Jowan you know you can't beat Greagoir in a fight, you idiot.." I mumbled. _Stupid oaf_.

"Then what has my pretty little elf in such a fit, then?" he laughed while brushing a hair out of my face. "It wasn't that templar was it?" he laughed. "That bloke has got to find a new hobby other than you. Got a thing for you, doesn't he?" I felt my ears flatten to my shoulders and eyes widen.

"_NO!_" I shouted while shoving past him and heading for the door. I ignored his confused calls after me as I ran out the door and headed straight for the staircase. I couldn't think anymore. I didn't want to. I hated feeling so flustered and so stupid over something so ridiculous. Why couldn't he just go away? Why couldn't they all go away? And what the hell did it matter how Cullen felt? _Damn it all._ I hated being this frustrated.

I wanted everyone to go away.

_Maker help me.._

I spent the rest of my evening in my room-alone-and away from every blasted male in the damn tower.

Bloody humans.


	9. False Power

"While I understand your intentions were good, we cannot take the risk, Irving!" an older, rough man's voice hissed. I could hear the shift of armor from outside the door, and instantly pinned the voice to the Commander. Shuffling footsteps followed the accusation.

"And what of your ideas? To _kill _her? We cannot even be sure she has been compromised in any way!" retaliated Irving. _Thank the Maker for Irving. _

"Oh _listen to yourself_, Irving! Of _course_ she has! Or am I the only one who noticed her screaming and writhing on the floor during her Harrowing? Or maybe perhaps you forgot that it took all _five_ of my templars to restrain her?" Greagoir spat.

"She's _dangerous_, Irving!" he snapped. "You and I both know this."

Silence.

"Might I make a suggestion?" a third voice entered the argument, much less familiar than the other two. What had Isthalla said his name was? Duncan, was it? The other two fell silent in response to the request.

"Give her to me; she would make an excellent recruit into the Grey Wardens-"

"_Absolutely NOT!_" Greagoir screeched above the three.

"_Greagoir_-" Irving's voice rose. "Please refrain from shouting. We are not animals." I tried not to chuckle at Irving's bold remark.

"I will stop _shouting _when you both have had some Maker-given _sense _beaten into you! Do you not see the _danger_? You treat this as a simple matter when it is not!" Greagoir retaliated. I felt my skin begin to tense again in apprehension, leaning as far as I dare towards the closed door where the three men argued.

"It is only complicated if we make it so, Greagoir." Irving.

"Actually, it is simple-" Duncan cut in. "As far as I'm seeing here, she is only a danger as long as she stays here. Let me take her, recruit her into the Grey Wardens, and make something of a _use_ for her skill."

"Oh yes, make it seem so _simple_!" Greagoir remarked sarcastically. "Do you not think she could just as easily hurt anyone in _here _as she would out _there_?"

"No, I believe she can and will-" Duncan began. "But the difference is it will be _darkspawn_, not templars. I would hope that you, of all people, would appreciate that. I am doing you a favor, Commander."

"And what _favor, _pray tell, would you be doing me when she runs away the first chance she steps outside of those gates? She would be an apostate, then!"

"There is that risk-" Irving interjected in a doubtful voice.

"Do you not have something called phylacteries for your magi?" Duncan spoke up. Greagoir fell silent. "Hand me her phylactery, and I can promise you she will stay within my watch."

"Out of the question." Irving's voice. Confusion took a hold of me as I froze and wondered if I'd heard wrong. That couldn't have been Irving.

"First Enchanter..?" Duncan turned to Irving, surprise entering his voice. Greagoir was still silent, if he had not burst into flames from his anger at that point.

"There is a very good reason we do not release mage phylacteries, Duncan. While I understand your motives, that is something I will not risk." A small silence followed.

"While I trust you, I am also a mage myself, and I can easily understand the temptation of freedom," Irving said. "I have trained her since a small girl, so do not take my words lightly when I say she would do _whatever necessary _to possess that phylactery." Duncan tried another route.

"I see _power _in the girl. I need that for my army," Duncan pleaded.

"Yes, but an _unmanageable _power!" Greagoir returned to the conversation with biting, unnecessary force. "You have no idea what _dangers _you are creating by even _entertaining _this notion!"

"I believe she would serve her purpose in helping _stop this blight_." Anger began to color into Duncan's voice, whom I'd assumed was as neutral as Irving.

"Or making it worse!" Greagoir retaliated. "I would as readily hand over a _blood mage _to the Wardens as Isthalla right now!" Now I felt anger creeping under my skin from Greagoir's harsh remarks. The longer I listened, the harder it was to stay still and resist the urge to burst into the room myself and knock some "Maker-given sense" into _Greagoir_. Irving, rather, spoke up for my absence.

"Greagoir, I think that is quite enough from you today." Quiet but grave. The room fell silent for a steady minute as the other two absorbed Irving's meaning.

"We need mage-kind in our ranks," Duncan spoke up, quieter, after a pause. "She is a perfect match for what I seek."

He pleaded a good case, but something was beginning to twist in my stomach that demanded I tell him no. I didn't want Isthalla to leave. I didn't care what Duncan wanted her for, why should she have to leave? I could feel myself bristling against this arrogant man, feeling a misplaced anger towards someone I didn't even know but needed to feel out of instinct. He talked of her as if she were an animal, deciding if she was of good lineage and stock. I was expecting him soon enough to offer up coin for her if this argument continued on. The very idea sickened me.

_You can't have her._

"I would have to ensure her safety, of course," Irving said before I had a chance to process what was being decided. Panic lit up my chest. My heart thrashed against my ribs in sudden anxiety. "She is strong, but still very young and confused, Duncan." How could Irving let this happen? _Why? _I felt my blood beginning to boil with anger that he was so easily letting this happen, that _Greagoir _still wasn't saying anything!

_Stop him! Maker's blood!_

"I can't believe you are considering this!" Greagoir scoffed at Irving, though the vindictiveness in his voice had left him. I wanted to shout at him, tell him no. It took every bit of willpower in my body to stay still outside of the doorway. Stepping into that room may make things worse.

_A lot worse.._ I reminded myself at the thought of it harming Isthalla in any way. Agonizing pain entered my chest as I forced myself to continue standing there and listening to them deciding her fate. _How could you do this, Commander?_ I felt betrayed. Angered. Enraged by his inability to protect her.

_How could you let them take her this way?_

I willed him to protect her, to keep her here in the tower and safe where she was meant to stay. How could he dare think it was safe for her to be outside of the tower? That was _wrong!_ Outside was horrible, terrible, _awful! _Damned creatures roamed outside of the tower, and he _knew _that!

_You want her to be killed, you bastard.._

Inconsolable anger began to take hold of me. My arms were shaking, fists clenched as I felt the pressure building. I couldn't even concentrate on what they were saying anymore-my vision fogged over with the rage of his indifference-_both _of their indifference to let this complete stranger take her away from me.

_From the tower.._

"Cullen..?" My anger melted in an instant at the sound, and out of a red-fogged haze I turned and found her standing there, looking at me with her beautiful, dark eyes. Her hair was wild and loose around her shoulders and entangled around her face. I found myself stolen by her with a single breath.

My thoughts shifted entirely.

"I-Isthalla.." I breathed. She creased her brow in confusion, and I quickly straightened back up in response.

"Is everything all right?" I asked. _Stupid, stupid! _I silently cursed myself for my mistake, and winced before turning back to her in hopes she wouldn't be angry with me. She didn't look angry at all, but rather.. upset. Worried. She looked away.

"Can I talk to you?"

I stared for what must have been too long a pause. I was at a loss for words, unsure if she had truly just asked me such a question. _Can I talk to you?_ Was I being fooled; was this a trick? I assumed it was never anything entirely important, because I knew she would not turn to me for personal answers. Yet the look on her face was anything but impersonal. It was quiet and unsure-entirely unlike her. It alarmed me.

"O-Of course-" I stuttered out after remembering myself and gesturing with a hand to allow her to lead ahead. I never dared walk ahead of her; she seemed to appreciate the effort of courtesy, at least.

From behind I found her usual leisurely, proud stroll reduced to a brisk stutter of a trot. My alarm at the situation began to build as I followed her down the winding staircase-doing my best to keep up as her pace quickened the closer we got to the front doors-and finally stopped just outside of the open front doors.

I turned my attention to the doors-suddenly wondering why they were open-then looked outside to find every mage in the tower strolling the grounds outside. The templars lined the shoreline, their swords at the ready in case any attempted to make a run. A few of the younger recruits walked with the mages, chatting amongst themselves as friends. Oh right, it was their weekly walk outside. My eyes shifted back to Isthalla.

"Take a walk with me?" she asked, her voice full of apprehension. I nodded mutedly and, forcing the jump of anxiety back down, held out my arm for her in a pointless effort of courtesy that I had attempted hundreds of times before and always failed. Without a single pause, she slid her delicate arm into the crook of my own and pressed up against me. I felt my heart completely stop.

_She's never done that before._

Focus. We were stepping outside, out into the warm, bright afternoon sun. My heart was pounding in my throat, and though I never elected to go outside on these weekly walkabouts, I couldn't focus. She was close and _warm _and right next to me. I tried my best to remember that she was upset-I needed to try my best to keep it together. She needed me.

_Maker's breath, she actually __**needs **__me._

I swallowed hard as we took a path around the backside of the tower-usually off limits to the magi on their walks-but I managed a dry nod to one of my subordinates as we passed. He nodded back, stepping aside to allow us to pass.

The noise of happy, crowded conversation faded as we circled slowly around the tower's grounds. The trees, which dotted the shoreline, faded into withering, dead limbs and skeletons that stretched along the south shore of the tower grounds, following out to the ruins of what once was a great stone bridge that connected to the mainland. I stared out at it as we came around the corner, finding its presence foreboding. It loomed a hundred feet high-dilapidated-a remnant of a dark history to its makers.

When we finally came to the most opposite side of the front of the tower, I came to a slow stop in front of an old stone bench and lowered Isthalla onto it and opted to stand myself. I wasn't sure I could think clearly sitting next to her. I fidgeted nervously with my gauntlets before deciding it was too distracting and crossed them behind my back.

"What's wrong, Isthalla?" I forced the numb words past my lips as I felt the weight of the conversation I'd heard earlier return to me.

_She's leaving, and there's nothing you can do._

Isthalla said nothing. I felt suddenly selfish for wanting to keep her at the tower. She would just as easily be killed within the walls of the tower as outside-at least outside she would stand a chance of defending herself. It only enraged me more to think that Greagoir did not care enough to even try and pretend she mattered. The only thing that mattered to him was protecting his damn _templars_; he treated the magi like stupid animals that needed to be killed for simply biting their master. He would rather see her dead than try and help her.

_You cold-hearted bastard.._

"What's going to happen to me?" My attention shifted entirely back to Isthalla as I turned alert eyes to her face. Panic shot through my chest as I saw tears threatening her gaze. I dropped down on one knee and began to raise my hands, then decidedly stopped. I didn't feel worthy of even touching her-I didn't deserve to, as selfish as I was being. I dropped them back at my sides in a sudden dismay of guilt and creased my brow. She looked up at me, wanting answers, and I felt my heart drop.

"I-I overheard Irving talking to Duncan the other day…" she said in a withered, dry voice. Her expression darkened.

_Oh Maker…_

"I have a feeling I won't have a say in the matter.." she murmured bitterly while turning her gaze to the side so I wouldn't see the tears in her eyes. My heart broke in two at the sight; I couldn't stand it any longer.

I reached out a weak, hesitant hand and placed it on her shoulder. My stomach lurched with the gesture, then settled once I got a hold of myself again. I swallowed hard.

"Irving won't let that happen," I lied. She looked at me, briefly-a penetrating look of desperation and hurt-then flicked her gaze to the ground.

"I can't stay here." I swallowed hard again, my heart beating violently in my chest.

_I know_.

"I don't want to go with him, Cullen.." she admitted after a pause. I saw her face crease up in slight resentment. "Something happened to me during my Harrowing." My heart fell and stomach dropped again as she looked at me with expectant, pleading eyes.

I nodded, slowly, full of a resistant lead that wanted to refuse every gesture I was making. I forced my expression to remain stone-hard, pressing my lips together firmly so they did not betray me. I saw the hurt enter her eyes again.

"Greagoir wants me dead." My face screwed up in confusion as I tried to fight back down my own feelings, and failed. I squeezed her shoulder.

"I will not let that happen," I put a forceful, definitive point on each and every word while clenching my teeth. _I won't let him touch you.._ I felt my chest clenching up against me as I spoke the words, but knew I meant them. Greagoir would not lay a hand on her-whether it meant my betrayal or not-he would not ever be allowed that satisfaction. This I was certain.

She looked at me in a pitying, misty sort of way before smiling through damp eyes. I felt injured by it, seeing the doubt in her gaze, but then fell completely silent as she leaned forward and rested her forehead against my shoulder. I held my breath for a brief, petrifying moment-wondering what she would do-then let it out shakily as I reached up my free hand and rested it on her hair. My heart thrashed in my chest as it fought against different emotions of confusion and fear as well as my anger towards Greagoir and protection of her.

_Remember your duty.._

I shut my eyes and clenched my jaw tight, willing the anxiety away. Greagoir's stone-cold voice rang through my head like a well-remembered wound, inflicting my betrayal that had long ago been carved. How could I do this to her? I did not deserve her attention, much less affection. This was wrong. I should be burned for this treachery, yet I could not move away. _How could you? _

Greagoir's steely voice cut through my mind like a knife.

"_Not a great method to start off your duties, Cullen," a deep and intimidating voice boomed from the shadows. I recoiled in horror as the cold, gray eyes of my Commander materialized from the darkness against the opposite wall and loomed over me._

"_C-Commander I-I, forgive me," I stuttered out, immediately sheathing my sword and standing up straight against the wall. My eyes were still wild with terror and mistrust, but I refused to let my Commander see my weakness, if he hadn't already. Greagoir raised a tentative brow and stepped to the side, peering after the boys as they disappeared down the staircase, their voices echoing up after them._

"_I trust you will remember the terms agreed upon for your reinstated authority and duty to this tower, Cullen," he warned. His voice felt like glass against my skin, chilled in ice and cutting down everything within his path with the mere tone of his words. I tightened my grip on the hilt of my sword and nodded._

"_I-I've been following her, ser-" I continued._

"_You do not only follow her, you watch her, templar. You follow her every move, you make sure not a thread is out of line, not a single hair on her head is misplaced," Greagoir cut in with a snarl as he turned on me and backed me against the wall. "Because if she should fail, if she should fall down the same path as her mother, she will be not only a danger to this tower but a threat to the entirety of Ferelden."_

"_Your only duty is that should she show even a single sign of losing control over her powers, you will do as I have asked you and destroy her, without question. That is your task, that is your duty," he finished with a seething growl._

_I nodded while tightening my jaw and trying to calm my pounding heart. I tried to swallow the dryness in my throat again, but only winced when it clenched up against me and stung._

"_Remember that I can just as easily send you back to Aeonar. I do not wish for that to happen with your talents, however. You are of no use to me wasting away in that black pit." Greagoir spat while turning disdainful eyes away to head towards the first floor._

"_Ser-?" I blurted out after my Commander. He turned on his heel in a second's notice, leering at me with his piercing eyes. I searched for words._

"_Isthalla…I mean-does she..know? What happened to her?" I tried to sound tactful, but the words came out as more of a jumbled stutter than anything coherent. I cursed myself for my nervous stutter. Greagoir seemed entirely unaffected by my attempt._

"_No," he said simply. "And it is our intention to keep it that way." I felt incredibly confused now._

"_But, how?" I couldn't help myself. How is it she wouldn't… remember something like that? Something so traumatic? Greagoir's interest slightly rose as his face mirrored an expression other than solid stone for once and he appeared mildly surprised._

"_Isthalla's mind is protected to keep her from repeating the mistakes of her mother," he said plainly. "It also acts in her stead as a protection against needless trauma which I'm sure you do not wish upon the girl, as fond as you are for her. She is not a threat as long as she does not remember. You would do well to keep that in mind, templar."_

_With that, Greagoir turned and strode down the stairs and out of sight._

What was he but a lesser monster than his commander? He had lied to her, and still lied to her… at what cost? To protect himself?

_You selfish bastard.._

Yet I still could not will myself a single word as I continued kneeling there, holding her against shoulder and praying to the Maker she would be kept safe. I swallowed hard as I pushed Greagoir's voice to the back of my mind and prepared to speak.

_Forgive me, Andraste…_

"You must go with Duncan-" I forced the stone-cold words past my lips. My stomach sickened as I spoke them, but I knew I could not-in my right mind-selfishly keep her here to die. Isthalla stiffened and leaned away with this comment. She looked at me, stung, and frowned. I clenched my jaw.

"You have to, Isthalla-" I began, pleading with her. "It's not safe to stay here, not for you." Her face crumpled more, and I hated to see that her expression was beginning to change into a look of violent mistrust. She slowly pulled her arm away from me, recoiling.

"_You-_" she choked out. "You _lied to me_-?" Her accusation pinned me with a knife's edge, twisting deep into my gut. I tensed my face, the pain seeping into my voice as I desperately tried to catch her before she ran away from me completely.

"You _knew _about this and you lied to me?" Anger began to color her voice now-a well-known anger that stung me too greatly. My heart was in my throat. I fell to my other knee and shook my head.

"No! I-I just wanted to protect you!" I begged. "Isthalla, _please_! Listen-" A fury like none other personified within her expression as she stood to her feet and slapped my hands away. I could see her right hand begin to glow with a vengeful infliction as she raised it back and contorted her face into a snarl.

"_Get away from me!_" she yelled. I tried pleading with her, begging her to stop.

"No, no please, Isthalla! They'll _hear you_!" I hissed, my eyes darting over my shoulder to the sound of a distant, vague shout.

"_THEN LET THEM HEAR!" _she roared. I froze. She stood over me, both hands aglow now as her eyes turned into an empty, white void and she pointed a defensive hand at me. I recoiled and held up my hands, pleading.

"You don't _understand, PLEASE!_" Her anger was too consuming, too enraged. I had injured what she valued most precious-her trust. I did not even have the chance to absorb my pain at knowing she hated me now when a voice called from across the lawn.

"STEP BACK!" a templar called to Isthalla. I turned just as a senior templar came running around the corner and raised his sword.

"_NO!"_ My shout was drowned out by the reverberating boom of his spell. I could not reach out in time to protect Isthalla from the worst of the wave, and saw her body get knocked to the ground before it hit me in the chest and sent me into a swimming abyss of fogged nightmares.

_You selfish bastard.._


	10. Ghost Stories

**Author's Note: **To avoid confusion, I want to clarify that this is the full flashback Cullen was remembering from the previous chapter (in chapter 8). It was originally written in 3rd person, and despite the fact the snippet from the previous chapter was converted to 1st person to better suit the flow, I decided (after much debate) to leave it in it's original 3rd person perspective for _this_ chapter. Man I hope that makes sense. Anyway, this was an actual event that took place just shortly after Cullen was conscripted to the Tower, and actually takes place just shortly before the Prologue of this fanfiction.

"You mean you ain't nevah 'eard it?"

"I don't believe in ghost stories!"

"Well ye betta start believin' mate, this one's as real as it gets!"

More spook stories. More reason to try and frighten the new blood in the tower, no doubt. He might be new himself-only a week broken into his station-but not as young and susceptible as the handful of other awkward, gangly boys he'd arrived with at the tower after meeting up with them on the road from Denerim. _Tread carefully _the Revered Mother had warned. He knew well his duties, as well as his necessary restraint. He would keep it, as well as his promises to the commander to stay out of social business.

As he moved to shoulder past the two babbling boys, one of them reached out an invasive armored hand and clamped him on the shoulder. He jumped, and resisted the urge to grab the boy's hand and snap it around his back just to teach him a lesson. He hated to be touched, even on his armor.

"Oy, ain't you one of them new boys?" he nodded in a airy tone. Marvelous, the whelp was arrogant as well as ignorant. His lip winced in aggravation, willing himself to calm down as he turned to face the two insolent boys at least a decade younger than he.

"Yes?" was his reply, but not as an answer. An inquiry, demanding reason for stopping him. The younger, more foolish boy recoiled a bit at the sight of his accusing gaze, but didn't seem to affect the other too much. Samuel, was his name if he recalled correctly. Impudent little ass of a b-

"He's new," Samuel jeered to his younger companion with a sneer and light elbow. "Was just tellin' Ronald 'ere a ghost story," he returned his attention to Cullen, offering a curt nod. "Wanna join in, Cully? Or are you too much of a tightwad like ole Commander Bones to 'ave a bit o' fun?"

He didn't want to know how Samuel knew his name. The boy was an idiot, and far too high on himself for Cullen. He offered a disinterested snort, and without even giving a word of reply, turned and continued his brisk walk towards the staircase.

"I told you he wouldn't buy it," the timid one muttered. He could just imagine the smug look on the older one's face. How he would have loved to knock some Maker-given sense into the youth, but he'd sworn to the Commander, he had sworn not to lose his temper with the reckless little bas-

"I imagine it'd interest you t'know it involves that li'l elf witch you follow around all hours of the day?"

The words slapped him in the face like a bucket of ice cold water, forcing him to stop at the top of the staircase and slowly turn back around. His gaze contemplated the boy's bluff from some ten feet away, then decided it was a topic he could not ignore. He took quick, bold strides back to where the two boys stood, and loomed over the older one Samuel.

"What exactly are you talking about?" he ordered. He might be new to the tower, but he outranked this sniveling little bastard by many years, and he refused to let him forget it. There were a few rare, choice templars who knew anything about Isthalla, and he doubted Samuel knew anything of all people.

Samuel seemed satisfied that he had finally caught Cullen's interest, and settled back against the wall with a faint grin.

"You 'eard me right. That pretty little witch you like to follow around like a lost puppy. Don't think I don't know, mate. She's as wicked as a snake, that one, though quite easy on the eyes," Samuel grinned. "Quite a tasteful too, if you know what I mean," he added.

It took everything in his willpower not to grab the bastard by the throat then and there. He wanted to hurt him, mangle him bone by bone for what he'd just spat out of an unworthy mouth. How dare he.

"She'd sooner hex your smallclothes before you got a chance to touch her!" the nervous one piped up. The smile vanished from Samuel's face.

"'Course she would," he snapped back, attempting to regain his dignity. "Nearly took my head off last week.." he muttered while hunkering back down into his armor and crossing his arms with a frown. Cullen resisted the urge to burst into an uproar of laughter. He didn't need to ask exactly what head Samuel had spoken of-perhaps he didn't need to break his neck after all.

"And anyway," he steered the subject hastily away, "back to my point, Cullen." His dark eyes held no effect on Cullen. He was as intimidating as an angry rabbit at this point, if rabbits could get angry. The idea only made him look all the more foolish. Perhaps Samuel could put him in a good mood after all.

"Yes, do go on," he said while trying to hold down a chuckle. Samuel's ears were beginning to turn a shade of bright red the more he flustered up in his armor. The younger boy, influenced by Cullen, was beginning to hide back a snort as well. Samuel turned his viperous gaze instead to his companion, who shrunk back in an instant and fell quiet.

"I'm sure you 'eard of the Orphanage incident that happened 'bout twelve years ago?" Samuel pressed on. Suddenly the situation was not funny anymore. All remnants of laughter or good-nature left Cullen's conscious as he stood straight up in his armor and frowned deeply down at Samuel.

"How do you know about that?" he asked in a grave and serious tone. Samuel perked and looked at him briefly before offering an unaffected shrug.

"Most everyone's 'eard the tale from ole' batty Marty, course," he said. "But anyway-"

"How does Marty know about it, then?" Cullen bellowed, taking Samuel by the shoulders and shaking him. He saw fear and shock briefly flicker in the young boy's eyes before he shoved his hands away and sneered.

"Shove off, mate! If you let me tell the damn story you'll know!" he snapped before rolling his shoulder around to get the sensation of Cullen's grip off of him. Cullen retreated a step back and frowned deeper, but said nothing more, simply listened. Best if he knew just how much knowledge passed between young templars like this about such an event…

If anything, no one should have to know about it.

"I've never heard of it," the younger one piped up again.

"Well of course you haven't. You're from some middle-of-nowhere chantry in the countryside! That's why I'm educatin' ya, Ronald!" Samuel boasted while pulling Ronald into a headlock to ruff up his hair. The other boy didn't like this very much, and grunted before jerking himself free and frowning deeply as he fixed his hair. Samuel smirked in satisfaction.

"Twelve years ago the tower received an urgent notice from Denerim that demanded they send out a party of seven templars and enchanters to the city immediately," Samuel began.

"But that's an unheard amount of templars for a search and capture request!" Ronald barked. Samuel's eyes flashed to Cullen.

"I know, that's why they knew immediately just how serious the problem must be," he spoke. "Even the First Enchanter was skeptical of the notice, and did not take well to the idea of sending out so many of the tower's own."

"Instead, Irving chose to go and act in the stead of the mages, while Knight-Commander Greagoir led a group of seven templars just as the decree had asked to march to Denerim," Samuel explained.

"Perhaps it was a raid?" Ronald asked. Cullen almost felt sorry for the young boy. How foolish and naïve he was. Each new sentence was sickening him by the minute, he could hardly stand to listen. To relive the nightmare.

"Halfway to Denerim a messenger from the west came on horseback and claimed something had happened at the tower, and he needed to turn his men around and head back immediately," he recounted in a grave and serious voice. Cullen blinked in surprise. This he had not known about..

"Did they?" Ronald asked, tentative. Samuel shook his head.

"Greagoir was determined to press on, the stubborn bastard. Instead Irving turned around with three of the other templars, allowing Greagoir to continue on with only four in his stead," he said. "Probably the smart decision."

"What happened back at the tower?" Ronald asked.

"Apparently some young mages went into revolt since their First Enchanter and Knight-Commander had left. Thought they could take over the tower, the idiots. Wasn't even really a fight; had 'em all reprimanded within a day and sentenced to their choice of death or the Rite of Tranquility," Samuel shrugged. Cullen felt disgusted by his indifference, talking of mages as if they were cattle. He decided he didn't like the boy at all.

"Did they reach the Alienage?" he cut in, attempting to steer the boy back on subject. His patience was thinning, and the longer he stood in the presence of this insolent whelp the more he wanted to imagine ways of knocking him in the face.

"They did, and not a second too soon," he fell back into the line of his story effortlessly, relinquishing his conversational tone for a more sinister, impacting voice. Ronald's eyes were as wide as saucers.

"What happened?" he asked, urging him on. Samuel's eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, and he frowned.

"Terrible things, mate. Much worse than what anyone thought," he muttered. "The day they arrived in the city, Greagoir and his men entered the Marketplace to an uproar of people screaming and running from the Alienage gates. They could sense at once something evil was inside them walls."

"What do you mean evil? Like darkspawn, maybe?" Ronald dared ask. Cullen swallowed the dryness in his throat and backed up another step. Everything was all too familiar to him now. Now that he remembered. He shut his eyes, remembering the screams, remembering the running.

"_Cullen, CULLEN inside now! You must not be outside of the Chantry, boy!" Mother Hannah called after him. A great mass of elves and humans alike were streaming out of the lowering gates, clawing to get past the guards and away from whatever was contained within those walls. The guards were shoving and forcing them back behind the gates as they lowered down, trapping everyone inside along with whatever evil he could not see._

"_CULLEN! Inside now! The Commander will handle this!" one of the older templars shouted at him from the Chantry steps. He felt a burning fire churning in his chest, an aching anxiety that tore at him and made his limbs shake and hands sweat. He was terrified, but alive. Brave. He felt ambitious, he wanted to show the Commander he could do it. He would have his chance to prove now he could be as good a templar as any of them. He had to._

_The shouts from his mentor faded into the collective screams of the crowd as he sprinted across the Marketplace and straight towards the closing gate where a group of fully-armed templars marched towards the Alienage. They had arrived from the Circle, and at the head of the fleet stood their Commander, the fabled Knight-Commander Greagoir. Cullen stared at him with wondrous, admiring eyes. He saw the tactful fearlessness in the leader's gaze as he ordered the guards to allow himself and his men past. He saw the fear in a few of his men's eyes. One of them at the back of the line was already taking steps away. He could heard their murmuring._

"_I'm not goin' in there… do you hear those voices? God the screams, the screams!"_

"_I hear a woman in my head; viperous, treacherous-she's goin' to kill us, mate! She'll murder us all and bleed us dry!"_

"_SILENCE!" the Commander shouted, but their fear was absolute._

"_I ain't gonna die!" one screamed and bolted off in one direction._

"_Ser, we can't hold back the residents for long! Are you going in or not?" the guard shouted. The other templar in the back was shifting from foot to foot, trying to decide._

"_She's in my head, Commander. I can't..I c-can't-" he began, then broke off into a gargled scream and fell to his knees, clutching his head. Cullen stared in horror down at the man, then back to his Commander who paid him no heed._

"_We march forward, now men! Precision and restraint! You must be steadfast!" he shouted over the wailing crowd._

"_SER!" Cullen cried out before they could slip under the continually lowering gate. Greagoir turned his cold gray eyes down at the inexperienced youth._

"_We have no time to talk, boy, can you not see?" he snapped._

"_But I can help! I'm training to be a templar!" Cullen pleaded. Greagoir gave him a single, calculating glance and nodded without a second to spare. It was now or never, and he had to take the chance. He had to try._

_One of the templars took the shield and sword from their screaming comrade and shoved it into his feeble hands._

"_Hope you know what you're doin' boy," one of the masked followers bellowed down at him. Cullen nodded through the oversized helmet they'd dunked onto his head and climbed under the gate after the others, turning back around just as the gate completely shut and locked them inside._

"_I ain't opening' this gate 'til you come out with the head of whatever's in there, Commander," the other soldier said. That was the last of him that Cullen saw that day._

"No mate…" Samuel replied with a piteous laugh, "no, not darkspawn... Somethin' much worse." A cold stone dropped in Cullen's stomach. He knew, he knew far better than this boy what horrors were inside of those walls. Far too well.

"Two of the templars stayed behind," Cullen recounted. Samuel, who had been halfway through conjuring his next sentence, stopped and turned to him.

"No, no mate, y'got it all wrong-they all went in. All of 'em," he said too defensively. Cullen raised an unamused brow.

"Do you know that for a fact?"

_Shut your mouth, you're saying too much._

"Well y-no. Just what Marty told me! But they all went in, I know that much, mate," he snapped. Cullen held up his hands in surrender and decided not to press the issue. He shut his mouth.

"What you're prolly thinkin' is the fact they all went in, but only two came out," he said as-a-matter-of-factly. Ronald's eyes were about the size of the moon now as he gasped and leaned back.

"Impossible," he breathed.

"Swear on me Uncle's grave, mate… All four went in with the Commander, but only two came out with 'im," he said gravely. Another rock to Cullen's stomach, and he felt he would be sick. He hadn't had to relive this nightmare for years… much less through the ghost stories of two teenage boys.

"Whatever happened in there, even the Commander don't talk about, but whatever did happen was…" Samuel paused, his eyes clouding over with something Cullen couldn't quite place. Fear, anger? Confusion? Samuel shook his head. "Something bad happened inside them walls, mate. Something I don't think even Marty can talk about he's so frightened."

Cullen's stomach lurched into his chest as he tried to pretend it didn't affect him, that he wasn't reliving every second of agonizing detail from inside the walls of that horrifying orphanage twelve years ago. The screams, and the blood, _Maker _the blood…. It covered the walls, streamed across the roof. Mangled, disemboweled bodies scattered across the floor in every room. A sickening, deadly stench that could make you heave with one small breath. And the sounds, Maker he could never forget the sounds of the children… their screams of pain and agony.

"You all right?" Ronald turned to Cullen, who had one hand braced against the wall and eyes shut tight. "You look like you're about to get sick, mate," he said. Cullen shook his head and held out an apologetic hand.

"I'm fine," he mumbled. "Go on," he added while turning his head away to bury into the sleeve of his arm and calm his thrashing heart. Samuel and Ronald paused a moment more to study him before turning back to their story.

"Well anyway, we don't know exactly what happened other than a massacre," Samuel shrugged. "The only thing I do know is that four templars went into them gates, and only two came out with Greagoir carrying a little girl." Cullen's heart stopped. "An _elf _girl," he spat the words, turning to Cullen.

"No-" Ronald breathed.

"Oh yeah," Samuel smirked at Cullen, "Even Greagoir denies it, but I know that elf witch had something to do with what happened in the Alienage that day. Try to cover it up, they will, but I know she had something to do with it."

"How do you know about this?" Cullen murmured in a drained, weary voice. Samuel, who had turned his attention back to the other boy, raised a brow and crossed his arms to face Cullen.

"Marty, of course. Batty as a fruitcake, but he's the only other one 'sides Greagoir that's actually still alive to tell the story," he shrugged.

"What about the other one?" Ronald cut in.

"What?"

"The other templar, you said two came out with Greagoir," Ronald persisted. Cullen withheld a groan and buried his face back into his arm. Here he had hoped Ronald was the stupid one.

"You mean the other templar?" Samuel stood a little straighter. "Heard he went loony right after the incident, tried attackin' some of the guards as it were. I think he died in Aeonar a couple years ago or something," he recalled. Cullen felt another stab through his chest. He struggled to breath, to push the memories back down to cage them where they belonged.

"So do you think it's true..?" his younger friend asked, eyes widened by the extravagant and terrifying tale. Samuel straightened back up from off the wall and shook out his half-asleep arms.

"I dunno," the older boy shrugged. "Can't really trust some old man addled out on lyrium, can you? If your stupid I suppose. It's just a story," he laughed, dropping the façade of stone-hard exterior for a more mocking tone. "You didn't really believe it, did you?" he chortled. Ronald squinched up his face in embarrassment.

"Don't mess with me like that! I'm going to have nightmares now, you idiot!" Ronald complained while shoving Samuel in the shoulder, who simply laughed it off as they completely ignored Cullen and turned towards the stairs to head to the first floor for supper.

Cullen remained leaned against the wall, heaving for breath as he tried to quiet his shaking body and cold sweat. A hand grasped him around his shoulder. He shouted and jumped, swinging out his sword in retaliation.

"Not a great method to start off your duties, Cullen," a deep and intimidating voice boomed from the shadows. Cullen recoiled in horror as the cold, gray eyes of his Commander materialized from the darkness against the opposite wall and loomed over him.

"C-Commander I-I, forgive me," he stuttered out, immediately sheathing his sword and standing up straight against the wall. His eyes were still wild with terror and mistrust, but he refused to let his Commander see his weakness, if he hadn't already. Greagoir raised a tentative brow and stepped to the side, peering after the boys as they disappeared down the staircase, their voices echoing up after them.

"I trust you will remember the terms agreed upon for your reinstated authority and duty to this tower, Cullen," he warned. His voice felt like glass against his skin, chilled in ice and cutting down everything within his path with the mere tone of his words. Cullen tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and nodded.

"I-I've been following her, ser-" he continued.

"You do not only follow her, you watch her, templar. You follow her every move, you make sure not a thread is out of line, not a single hair on her head is misplaced," Greagoir cut in with a snarl as he turned on Cullen and backed him against the wall. "Because if she should fail, if she should fall down the same path as her mother, she will be not only a danger to this tower but a threat to the entirety of Ferelden."

"Your only duty is that should she show even a single sign of losing control over her powers, you will do as I have asked you and destroy her, without question. That is your task, that is your duty," he finished with a seething growl.

Cullen nodded while tightening his jaw and trying to calm his pounding heart. He tried to swallow the dryness in his throat again, but only winced when it clenched up against him and stung.

"Remember that I can just as easily send you back to Aeonar. I do not wish for that to happen with your talents, however. You are of no use to me wasting away in that black pit." Greagoir spat while turning disdainful eyes away to head towards the first floor.

"Ser-?" Cullen blurted out after his Commander. He turned on his heel in a second's notice, leering at him with his piercing eyes. Cullen searched for words.

"Isthalla…I mean-does she..know? What happened to her?" he tried to sound tactful, but the words came out as more of a jumbled stutter than anything coherent. He cursed himself for his nervous stutter. Greagoir seemed entirely unaffected by Cullen's attempt.

"No," he said simply. "And it is our intention to keep it that way." Cullen felt incredibly confused now.

"But, how?" He couldn't help himself. How is it she wouldn't… remember something like that? Something so traumatic? Greagoir's interest slightly rose as his face mirrored an expression other than solid stone for once and he appeared mildly surprised.

"Isthalla's mind is protected to keep her from repeating the mistakes of her mother," he said plainly. "It also acts in her stead as a protection against needless trauma which I'm sure you do not wish upon the girl, as fond as you are for her. She is not a threat as long as she does not remember. You would do well to keep that in mind, templar."

With that, Greagoir turned and strode down the stairs and out of sight.


	11. Alden

I awoke to the sound of clinking metal. Something was restraining me. Still crawling out of a dazed dream, I pulled again and met resistance-cold, metal resistance. My mouth slurred into something of a murmur for Irving, but then decided it was too much work. Why did I feel so tired?

"It's best you refrain from moving, mage." A cold, unmoving voice I did not recognize. I rolled my eyes open from under heavy lids and found the blurry outline of a templar standing over me. I was lying down.

I tried to sit up again, on instinct, and felt my body coiled back down against the mattress.

"W-What..are.." I wanted to work out the most insulting phrase I could, but my voice could barely manage a whisper. I felt like I'd been slammed in the chest with a bucket of ice. Breathing was cold and painful. I gritted my teeth and tried moving again, and felt the presence of the templar move closer.

"Do not resist. It will make it more painful." I groaned and felt the pain become suddenly fierce and cold. Magical restraints.

Thanks for the warning.

"_W-Why_?" I managed. I tried opening my eyes again to look at him-he didn't look familiar. His sympathy was seemingly next to none; he took a step back and crossed his arms.

"How about you answer that question," he replied in a more demanding tone. Suddenly the voice became quite familiar to me. Ser Alden the templar-a _former _templar I had associated with a year or so back. Truly, I just lost interest.

"_A-Alden-_" I begged. I heard shifting metal. My lips were dry. "Y-You _jerk_," I hissed, trying again to get up. Greagoir had done this on purpose, he had to. Tormenting me with such childish antics. Did he think it would hurt me more to have someone I knew enforcing my restraints? It was his way of spitting in my face, I was certain.

_Cowardly bastard…_

"What in Maker's name were you _thinking_, Isthalla?" Alden interrupted my spiteful thoughts. I felt surprised, and even managed to turn my head and try to smile.

"Are we on first-name basis again, then?" I murmured. My voice was beginning to come back-as long as I didn't struggle. I did not much favor being helpless. It made my skin prickle; agitated me.

Alden tried to catch himself by pointing his chin to a more airy position and frowning. I closed my eyes, listening to the sound of his uncomfortable armor shifting.

"No, we are not."

"Yet you just called me by my name?" I tested. I shouldn't talk so much; I felt myself weakening by the second.

"I was trying to make a point to you. I don't think you will get out of this one so easily, Isthalla." He sounded genuinely concerned. I worked my expression into a frown, eyes still closed.

"Since when do you care?" I laughed. "Last I remember you called me-" I paused to breathe. "What was it? '_Cold-hearted, viperous witch_' if I remember correctly?" I managed to throw a little bite in the end of my words. Feeling satisfied, I leaned my head back on the pillow and breathed in deep. Why did it feel like I had an entire bookcase resting on my chest?

"This is not retribution, Isthalla."

"I am aware of that," I cut in. Silence. More shifting armor.

"You may be a the cruelest woman I know but you most certainly are not stupid!" he raised his voice. Great, now he thought scolding me like a little child would make things better. I snorted.

"I cannot say the same for you, templar." I imagined a peculiar look of undignified fury and shock seeping into his face at that moment. I waited to hear him absorb my words, then explode into anger-a well-remembered trait of Alden's.

"This is _serious_, Isthalla!" he barked. "Greagoir wants your head on a spit now; and I think at this rate he's going to get it a lot sooner than he expected!" I could hear him aggravatedly pacing up and down the rug.

"Are you _trying _to get yourself killed?"

"My problems are none of your concern, _Alden_-" I bit back. "And I don't need your _petty_, misplaced _concern_ to know that." I felt my strength returning-or perhaps his magical focus being temporarily distracted-and managed to raise my head and open my eyes.

"Did Greagoir send you in here in hopes you might _scold _me to death before he had to get his hands dirty? Typical." The weight began to lift more. I could sit up.

"_I'm trying to help you, mage_!" he jutted a self-important thumb at himself, his face red and eyes wild.

"I see we've switched back to indifferent titles again," I scoffed, crossing my arms. Alden was stalking the room like an caged mabari now, shoulders hunched, fists clenched.

"And _anyway_," he spun back to face me. "It was _Irving _that sent me, not Greagoir! You should thank that man for sticking his neck out for you all the time, you _ungrateful_ _bit_-"

I was on my feet in an instant, my hand clamped over his mouth and other, more menacing right poised and ready to strike his chest at any second. He froze under my grasp, his eyes rolling to the back of his head with the quick power of the spell seeping into his blood. I snarled and raised my lips to his ear.

"_Finish that sentence ever again and I will cut out your tongue_," I hissed before letting his limp, unconscious body drop to the floor. A harmless paralyzing spell; it would wear off in an hour or so. I frowned down at his motionless body, crossing my arms.

Stupid man.

Irving's office was not far. They had placed me back in my quarters with Alden as watch, making the fifteen or so feet to his office a rather ridiculously simple ordeal. No guards lined the hallway, and even the stairwell had no templar or magi to speak of leading to the lower levels. It must be supper. Which led me to the off-colored idea-

"Come in, Isthalla," Irving offered without looking up from the parchment strewn across his desk as I opened the door. I slipped into the room, shutting the door wordlessly behind me before strolling up to his desk.

He glanced up, studying me in an attempt to perhaps make sure I was unharmed, then nodded to a nearby chair. I took my seat and rested my chin on the weight of my thumb, staring him down.

"You're quite clever for an old man," I commented. Irving continued to scratch across his parchment paper, his forehead wrinkled in concentration as he leaned forward to read the letters under candlelight.

"No-" he answered after a large pause, "I simply understand your character, Isthalla." My hand slipped from under my chin and brushed across my face before I dropped it back on the arm of the chair. He glanced up.

"Is Alden all right?" An honest, calculating stare that demanded my obedience. I nodded.

"A simple sleeping spell. He will be fine." Irving seemed to accept this, nodding to himself, and shifted some of the strewn papers around on his desk. I notice one of them slip and fall to the floor, and felt a cold, sharp prick of recognition as the title _'Famous Maleficar'_ carefully scratched across the top caught my eye. My eyes shot to his desk, now searching hungrily over the naked display of pages, books, and assortments of resources that had seemed entirely unimportant a moment ago.

"'What are you doing with those?" I asked in an instant, my eyes widening as I scanned every label of the stacked books, recognizing some form of blood-magic related topic in the titles. I screwed up my face, turning a demanding expression to Irving.

"Oh, these?" he seemed mildly surprised as he leaned back and surveyed the papers on his desk as if they had just appeared there. He tapped his quill against the wood of his desk.

"Yes-" I butted in, feeling my anxious temper rise. I had _asked _him about these just the other day, and yet he'd lied to me. I frowned. "You said we didn't have them!"

"Correction-" Irving interrupted my rising accusation, flicking his eyes to mine. "I said they were _none of your concern_, Isthalla. I did not say they were missing," he interjected. I held my tense posture for a moment longer before sinking back into my chair, glum.

"Why do you have them, then?" I asked. I still felt aggravated he would keep them from me. It wasn't as if I intended to _practice _it.

"As a precaution." he stated. I creased my brow in confusion and sat forward in my chair.

"What do you mean? Not because of me-"

"-No," he quickly replied, looking up. "This is another matter you are, _thankfully_, not involved in." I made a note of the weight he put on the word, feeling a slight bitterness he would so easily pin me to every bad situation that happened at the tower. A frown pulled onto my lips.

"Is someone practicing blood magic?" I stepped back into the conversation with full force, my eyes penetrating Irving's forehead with great intensity. I willed him to look up, to give me answers.

"That is none of your con-"

"-_Are they?_" I demanded. Irving's quill fell silent as it absorbed my bold order, then was set on the edge of the desk before he finally looked up at me, scrutinizing.

"If you _must_ know, then _yes_."

"Who?"

This was something Irving would refuse to answer, no matter how many times I pestered him about it. I knew I would not get a name, but I could not refuse the temptation to at least try. Curiosity compelled me to.

Irving narrowed his eyes on me, silently asserting his authority, before I finally sunk back into my chair and sighed.

"There is, _yes_, a rumor of possible blood magic practice in the tower, but who or why is not something for you to concern yourself with. The matter is being dealt with by our Knight-Commander," he answered vindictively.

"As well as he's '_dealt_' with me too, I'm _sure_-" I mumbled. Irving glared from across his desk.

"Supper will be over in around a half-hour, meaning _Greagoir_ will be back upstairs to check on you in fifteen. I would suggest you make it back to your quarters before then." I waited for him to look at me-ensure I would obey with a flicker of his eyes-but instead he continued writing. I frowned.

"I've caused a rather large disruption," I stated, not making a question out of it. I knew the facts-whether or not it had started out in my control, it was mine now, and I had done well to ensure my demise. I frowned, grim, and looked up at Irving. I met his gaze briefly-a troubled, weary expression-before he turned back to scribbling on his papers.

"I can't come back, can I?" I asked after a pause. The strangest phrase ever to leave my mouth-a detection of sadness that I would not be allowed to stay in my cage any longer. I screwed up my face in confusion, trying to decipher my own feelings, when Irving set down his quill.

"No," he spoke up, folding his hands together and setting his eyes on me. I felt wounded by his expression but refused to let him see it. I looked away.

"What has happened cannot be undone, nor can your actions in response to the events," he said plainly. I heard the disappointment in his voice as he shook his head and looked down. "Honestly, Isthalla, I had hoped better of you. You are a smart girl-" He sighed and rested the bridge of his nose between two fingers.

"_Cullen_, of all templars-" he shook his head. "I didn't expect that." My attention rapidly shifted as I sat up straight in my seat, distracted by the recollection of the previous day-or whatever day it had been.

"Where is he?" I demanded.

_Why should you care? Let the lying bastard rot in his misery._

Irving frowned deeply and picked up one of the parchments. "That is none of your concern right now, Isth-"

"-_Where is he?_" I demanded, this time more importantly. Irving raised his eyes to mine. I dared myself to stare back as long as I could, and finally gave in when I couldn't hold it anymore. My anger towards Irving was not justified-it was blind.

"Until you can learn to _restrain _your anger, you are forbidden to go near that poor man. He has suffered _enough_ on your behalf," Irving dismissed the conversation.

Irving was most likely the only man (or woman) capable of sending me into gut-wrenching guilt from scolding. I felt wounded and kicked-a dog that had eaten it's master's shoe and regretted it entirely. Alden was right. Irving _had _stuck his neck out for me and this is how I repayed the man. I felt slightly disgusted with myself.

"I'm… sorry," I forced the words out. They felt too heavy to be spoken; numb. I raised my eyes to the First Enchanter's face, which softened slightly when I met his gaze. He sighed.

"Isthalla, I have known you since you were a small child," he sighed. "You are a brilliant girl, but too bold. Your lack of fear _can _and _will _keep putting you in danger if you do not _stop _this. I cannot protect you forever." I saw sadness in his eyes, a type of sadness that made me feel overwhelming regret. I clenched my jaw.

"I-I know," I muttered, feeling the sting of his words still pierce my skin. He raised his index to me, knowing.

"Power is desired, but _humility _is a necessity in life. For your sake, _please_, remember that, Isthalla." I nodded and he seemed satisfied, nodding back, before taking a seat back at his desk. I stood and shifted from one foot to the other in a bout of nervousness.

"Irving?" I asked. He looked up and raised his brow, waiting. I pressed my mouth together.

"Is there.. _any _way…?" I began, but couldn't finish it. What would I say? _Is there any way to undo all of this? _Why did it matter?

_Because you don't want to leave._

I shut my eyes before he could finish his grave response of rejection. I knew the answer; no matter how many times I asked, it would stay the same. I had to leave-soon-or I would be in real danger.

"There is nothing I can do, Isthalla. Greagoir's decision is final," he started. I could feel the knot instantly form in my chest as he breathed in deep and looked up at me.

"You will go with Duncan and the Grey Wardens. There is no longer a place for you here at the tower. I'm sorry." A knife in my chest.

Tears pricked at my eyes.

"Thank you, First Enchanter.." I looked down so he would not see my blurring vision. He nodded to me.

"I believe you have a short time to say goodbye to Jowan before Ser Alden awakes. You are to be escorted at midnight by Greagoir, so prepare your things." He looked up once more, grim. "Good luck, Isthalla.." I nodded, unable to form words on my trembling lips as I turned and quickly strode from the room before he saw the tears slip down my face.

In the darkness of the hall I could run. I sprinted past the torches on the wall, hearing the hiss of the fire going out as I passed each one. My vision was blurring, barely visible as I stumbled my way down the south corridor and into the hallway. I found myself running to the only place no one would look for me, and the only place I felt safe to go.

The Chantry.


	12. Andraste's Mercy

"_J-Jowan?_" I stuttered, confused. I was stumbling through another nightmarish dream, just waiting to wake up and find more templars holding me down and preparing to kill me. He was standing in the center of the aisles, looking up to the statue of Andraste like a lost, happy child.

"Isthalla?" he turned to me, his smile vanishing the moment he saw my face. I quickly tried to sniff back the tears and wipe my eyes with the back of my arm. He rushed forward, his arms out.

"What are you doing here?" he chuckled while attempting to gather me into his arms. It only made the tears worse, and forced me to pull away while still covering my eyes. His laughter died in an instant.

"W-What's wrong..?" he asked. I had no words to speak. The weight of the situation had finally settled into my chest, and it felt like I couldn't breathe. I stumbled over a breath, hearing my own voice catch in my throat.

I dropped my arm and tried to look up to focus on anything else but Jowan's face. His stupid, happy, wonderful face that I would probably never see again. My chin trembled.

"J-Jowan I-" I tried, but the words wouldn't finish themselves. I turned to look at the statue of Andraste and found her smiling face looking down upon me with disdain. She was mocking me, the cruel, heartless witch. I felt so inexplicably enraged by her indifference, by everyone's indifference. It erupted with a sudden, furious scream that broke and withered into a sob as I fell to my knees and beat tightened fists into the stone floor.

"Isthalla, _please!_" Jowan stumbled to my side and wrapped his arms over me, pulling me back to a sitting position before I could crack my knuckles against the stone again. They were bleeding.

"What's _wrong_?" he begged. I could hear my own labored, heavy breathing as I inhaled through gritted teeth. Angry tears still clung to my eyes.

"Those _bastards_," I growled. "Those heartless, indifferent _BASTARDS! Every DAMNED one of them_!" I beat my fists once more into the stone floor, sinking down and curling into myself so I could hide. My shoulders shook in attempts to stop my tears, but they kept flowing despite my fury. I no longer cared if Jowan saw.

Jowan sat in silence and waited while I let my anger subside into the stone beneath. I shuddered on a final breath, letting the wave recede as easily as it had come, and finally broke to the surface where I could breathe again.

"I-I'm leaving, Jowan," I murmured after too-long a pause. I could see Jowan's hands tense in response and wait as the information sunk in.

"W-What, why? What do you mean?" he demanded as I slowly sat up, my eyes puffy and red from tears. I sniffled.

"Greagoir is sending me away," I recited in an empty voice. The numbness began to set in as I blocked it out, hoping if I ignored the pain long enough I might not have to feel it. My eyes were still blurring.

"_What?_" Jowan erupted in anger as he stood to his feet and loomed over me. "Wha-_Why_-_he can't DO that!_" He stalked back and forth, similarly to the reaction I'd seen from Alden, before dropping down onto one knee.

"_Tell me you're joking_," he demanded. I shook my head, still blank, eyes still seared by red as I stared aimlessly at the moonlight streaming in from the upper rafters. Let Jowan be angry for me-I no longer had the strength for it.

Jowan fell to his knees and grabbed me by the shoulders, temporarily turning my bleary eyes to his constricted, wildly terrified face. "_How_?" he asked. I smiled a bitter and sickening grin.

"Duncan," I said simply. Now Jowan moved into the stage of grief, his own eyes screwing up with pain and fear.

"Greagoir will have me killed if I stay," I murmured emptily. I closed my eyes, focusing on the off-colored beat of my heart. My breathing felt shallow. "So he's having me recruited into the Grey Wardens as payment."

"That's _suicide!_" Jowan choked. I smiled and laughed.

"Exactly."

Jowan picked me up off the ground and held me by the shoulders, shaking me.

"I won't let him, Isthalla! I _won't_!" Though I admired the vindictiveness to his voice, I knew he was powerless against Greagoir. I offered him a sad, withering smile and shook my head. Tears filled my eyes again.

"Don't worry yourself about it," I said, resting a hand on his face and turning away to walk up the aisles. I heard a loud snarl of anger behind me followed by the sound of crashing objects-a bench being toppled over-as he raged up and down the walkway.

"_No!_" he argued with the faceless decision. I took a weary seat at the stone steps leading up to the podium, folding my hands needlessly over my lap as I watched Jowan thrash about the aisles in a grim state of understanding. There was nothing to be done but wait.

Jowan was busy huffing and thrashing and kicking at benches when he suddenly froze mid-step, hunkered over and heaving for breath, and stared hard at the floor. I watched his expression shift from anger to sudden, refreshing surprise as if something brilliant had overcome him. I sat forward with mild interest, my face working into a slightly confused but curious expression as I waited for him to process whatever new thoughts had become him.

He burst back into movement a second later, rushing back to me and falling on one knee at the steps. He grabbed me by the shoulders.

"Isthalla do you remember when I asked to talk to you about something the other day?" he asked, earnest. I blinked and slowly nodded in response before watching him jump to his feet and look wildly around in a circle for any nearby eavesdroppers-something he should have looked for before he went off into a bout of lunacy moments ago-before falling back to his knees and grabbing me again. I blinked.

"Do you not understand?" he said, smiling through tears. I shook my head numbly, not sure where he was going with this conversation by any means, and began to pull my arms away.

"I can _fix _this, Isthalla! I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner-" he shook his head and looked at the steps, still breathing quickly. I frowned.

"What do you mean?" I finally asked, finding the proper words to speak once more. Jowan stared hard at me, his face worked into a desperate confusion, before falling into a softer, more fond expression I'd rarely seen.

"There's someone I need you to meet," he said. "A girl."

Suddenly I was _very _confused.

"Jowan, listen I don't think I have time for this-"

"_Trust me_, Isthalla. You must," he begged with wide, hopeful eyes. I paused for a moment to sigh my frustrations, then looked up at him again and nodded. I could at least humor him before I left.

He didn't need another invitation. Dragging me to my feet, he grabbed my hand in his and jogged to the north end of the sanctuary before spinning me around and setting me by an altar. I felt more confused than ever, tensing up as I looked around and felt a peculiar sense of recognition from the spot, then turned back to Jowan.

"What's this ab-" I started, but Jowan put a finger to my lips.

"J-Just-wait here. I'll be _right _back, I promise." I creased my brow, demanding answers, but found his desperate expression too much to combat. I sunk back into my chair with an aggravated, weary sigh.

"Just hurry." I muttered. Jowan smiled.

"I promise," he said before planting a kiss on my cheek and scampering off into the hallway.

Once he was out of sight I turned to look at the altar again, watching the small candle flickering on display. I frowned and crossed my arms, hunkering down into my seat by the wall before roving curious eyes over the opposite wall. A few bookcases loomed over the dark sanctuary, their shadows cast against the stone floors. I felt a prickling sensation take hold of me again as I slowly turned back to the altar, and imagined a templar crouched at the stairs.

_Of course._

A bitter, almost-chuckle nearly escaped my mouth as I recognized the meeting grounds upon which I'd acquainted myself with the man. I crossed my arms and let a small smile flicker across my face as I recalled the event, remembering how nervous and frightened he had been, silly thing. He was such a skittish, sheepish man.

_He still is.._

The thoughts felt distasteful floundering about in my mind-he had betrayed me. He did not deserve my sympathy, and should have not in the first place. Yet I could not escape the memory of that first night, and many meetings since.. I heard the precious, single remnant memory of his laughter. It was one of the more pleasant, comforting sounds I'd heard in my life. I felt warmed by it.

_He has always been kind to you.._

I couldn't say the same for the other templars… _any _other templar, actually. My face was slowly contorting into a more sullen, confused look the longer I stared at the altar. The thought I wouldn't see him ever again-and after the last incident-sent a sickness into my stomach I could not make leave. I was overwhelmed with the sudden, impulsing desire to tell him sorry; to run and find him in the tower, and beg his forgiveness before they dragged me away.

I was halfway between weighing the risk of sneaking into the templar's dormitory when Jowan somehow materialized back in front of me.

"Oh," I felt myself blurt out halfway to my feet. Jowan had someone standing behind him, shifting my attention from Cullen and instead to a suddenly unwanted intruder standing in front of me.

"Isthalla, I wanted you to meet someone," Jowan began uncertainly. He held out a hand in presentation as she stepped forward and into the candlelight, smiling. She was wearing chantry robes.

"This is Lily."

* * *

"_Remind _me, again," I hissed between clenched teeth, "_how, _in _Maker's name, _you convinced me to do this?" Jowan was crouched beside me, panting and wild-eyed with a blissful smile on his lips as he rubbed blood splatter off his cheek.

"Because we are _far _better company than some batty old Grey Warden?" he offered, grinning. I frowned, irritated, and shoved him aside while hobbling forward in a crouch, hand raised in preparation to strike.

"Right," I grumbled, wiping the sweat and dirt out of my eyes. Damned templars-rigged the entire basement with traps and dungeons every ten feet. What was this, training practice? I felt insulted.

After peering around the corner to ensure the coast was clear, I raised unsteadily to my feet and gestured for Jowan and Lily to follow. Jowan pressed up behind me, breathing obnoxiously into my ear. I flinched and waved him off before slipping around the corner.

"Watch out!" Lily shrieked as another ghost materialized at the end of the hallway. In an instant my hand was raised out, shooting a crushing hex into his ghostly little bones and sending him into a painful seizure on the floor.

"Irving should know better," I commented ruefully while stepping over the shrieking corpse and continuing down the hallway. Jowan glanced over his shoulder while walking past.

"Isthalla you never told me you could do that!" he complained, indignant. I glanced over my shoulder at him, slightly surprised, and turned back to the front.

"Jealous?" I asked. Jowan snorted.

"Hardly."

"Right, I believe you." I snorted. Jowan was opening his mouth to argue when Lily nearly jumped over us both in excitement while pointing to a door.

"There it is! There!" she piped up. I shook off the weight of her hand and stepped forward.

"Good. We can finally get out of this damned place. I'm getting tired of target practice," I commented while stepping up to the door.

"Wait-!" Lily yelped before my hands could wrap around the handle. I grimaced in anticipation of yet _another _torture some obstacle we would have to overcome and, sighing, turned on my heel to face her.

"What is it this time, pray tell, sister?" I remarked irritably.

"Hey," Jowan cut in, bristling. "Leave her alone. She's just trying to help." I rolled my eyes.

"I agreed to go with you, Jowan. I don't have to like the fact you decided to _lay_ with a lay_ sister_."

"Oh, _haha_, very clever, Isthalla-" he snapped. "Lily, you'll have to get used to her. She's a bit of a-" he stopped, looking to me for what I deemed the appropriate response that wouldn't have him killed. I rolled my eyes.

"_Cold-hearted bitch _suit you, yes? I'm rather fond of that one now," I remarked before turning around and walking towards a nearby dungeon cell. The rusty bars were a bit of work to get open again, but once the hinge loosened I was able to slip my fingers in enough to yank the door open. Jowan and Lily followed behind me, chatting amongst themselves.

"-Really she's very sweet, Lily-" he continued explaining. I shook my head while yanking open the rusty door another foot. "-Just not very _refined_ in mannerism. Not a big chantry fan, either."

"I'm quite all right with different beliefs. I myself don't believe everything the Chantry teaches us, just some." I wanted to scoff. I couldn't believe this is who Jowan had decided to buckle himself down to; of all the women in the bloody tower, an _Andrastian _for Maker's sake!

"A little help would be _greatly _appreciated!" I snapped while trying to un-wedge the last foot of the door. Jowan perked and leapt forward to help, wrapping his hands above mine and jerking the door open the last foot. I nearly stumbled forward.

"Thanks," I said flatly while straightening back up and brushing the hair out of my eyes.

"You're welcome!" Jowan replied with a bright, happy smile. I rolled my eyes and stepped into the cell.

"What is that for?" Lily piped up when I began dragging a large, rusted metal spoke towards the door at the end of the chamber. I grunted, shifting the metal hub long enough to stand up and turned to her.

"For the door." Was she stupid, as well?

"But that door is sealed magically; we cannot get through." Jowan stood beside her, watching me also as I dragged the heavy spoke towards the door. I panted for breath, wondering if maybe I could convince Jowan to just make her go sit and wait by the entrance, and turned back to the door.

"You Andrastians give up too quickly when there is no other explanation," I commented while angling the spoke a good foot from the door. I braced myself, spreading my feet apart and planting them firmly to the ground, then with a loud grunt lifted the spoke up with both hands, reared back a few inches, and hurled it as hard as I could at the wooden door.

It hit the direct center of the door with a satisfying, loud _crack _and crashed back to the floor. The sharp noise of metal hitting stone rang in my ears for a few seconds afterward, and caused me to wince. I turned back to a rather stunned Lily, smirking.

"Care to help me?"

Jowan was able to throw the heavy hunk of rusted metal easier than I could. A few more tries and we cracked the door enough to break the magic barrier, eliminating it completely. One more good, solid kick to the center and the hinges broke off the frame, crashing into a great, splintered mound on the inside of the room. I stepped over the rubble and into the freezing cold storage room with chattering teeth.

"The phylacteries-" Jowan breathed while surveying the frosted shelves that lined all the way to the ceilings. It truly was a surreal sight, though I knew regretfully mine had already been removed. I turned to Jowan.

"Are you ready?" I asked, honest. I could see the tension and brimming rebellion in his eyes as he stepped forward and tightened his jaw.

"Yes." He looked at me.

"Let's get this over with."


	13. Ignorance

I stared hard at the angled, stone ceiling above, crossing my hands behind my head. So far they had not changed shapes from an hour ago, or the hour before that. To be dismissed from duty for a day was one thing, but to be confined to the templar's dormitory was another matter entirely. I had no say in the matter, nor was given the chance to explain-simply orders that meant next to nothing to the other templars. As far as they were concerned, what they had done was an act of the Maker-a righteous retribution.

I believed otherwise.

_Maker's blood _how much longer could I stand this? I was itching to get up, to run downstairs and at least _see _that she was all right. I was entirely tempted to do so, but the same, threatening voice rang in my mind, securing me back to the bed.

_It's your fault._

I felt my jaw tick as I recalled her face for the hundredth time-so angered and hurt-and felt my stomach twist over itself once more. I should have told her, Maker, I should have told her everything the first night I met her. This was not the Maker's work, and nor was it righteous in the eyes of Andraste. Every bone in my body screamed out against this treachery, this inhumane lie I was continuing to let happen the longer I laid in my bed and stared pointlessly up at my ceiling.

It was _not _her fault. The blame lay in the Commander. His inability to protect and inform her led to her destruction; how dare he try to shift it to her, when she was the one suffering? How could he lie to her?

_It is our job to keep them in line, not to befriend them._

The ignorant, chastising phrase echoed in my mind from the less-than-light conversation we'd held earlier. I had never in my years imagined I would raise my voice to a superior officer, much less Knight-Commander Greagoir.

"_How can you sit there and SAY that?" I yelled, horrified. "She's not some bloody MONSTER wreaking havoc in the tower, for Maker's sake she's a living BEING! The fact that she is blessed with magical talents does not make her any different from you or I!"_

"_Of COURSE it does, you ignorant boy!" he snapped back. I recoiled into my posture, feeling my fists tighten at my sides and eyes narrow. I gritted my teeth._

"_Her 'talents' are a CURSE blighted upon us because of our ignorance to the Maker! It is because of her magic she is deemed as an abomination! Magic is a stain, a reminder of our failure to respect the Maker!" _

_I was so enraged I could not speak._

"_And you would do well to remember that while you spend the rest of the day dismissed from duty and in your quarters asking forgiveness for your choice of words!" he snarled. With that, he slammed the door behind him and strode down the hall._

I could feel my pulse quickening as I continued staring up at the ceiling, the anger slipping under my skin once more. He called her an abomination; how dare he.

The longer I laid there, pointless and seething, the more I felt my blood boil. Greagoir treated the magi like stupid, disobedient dogs-he had no _right _to treat them in such a way. The longer I laid there, listening to his spiteful words ringing in my head, the less I could stay still.

"_Power-mongering and mindless BEASTS, all of them!_"

I was on my feet in an instant, fists clenched and snarl gripping my mouth. I had to stop this. Isthalla deserved better, _Irving _deserved better than this wretched fate for his own kind. Maker forgive me, but I would never forgive myself if I let her walk out those front doors now. My soul be condemned.

_Andraste give me wings._

I stepped out into the cool shadows of the hallway, glancing left and right. Empty. It was supper; my growling stomach reminded me of that much. I could not eat, I could not sleep-not until I found retribution for this. Maker's _blood_, what was I going to do?

_Storm the castle? Take down your brothers?_

I wasn't sure what I was doing, only that something had to be done. My gut twisted and clenched up against me the more I hesitated. It made me feel sick every second I stood in the hallway waiting, expectant. An unsure breath shuddered from between my clenched teeth.

Muttering a short prayer to Andraste, I slipped down the hallway and began to quickly descend the stairs to the lower levels. My heart was in my throat as I rounded another set of stairs-third floor, then the second-and was halfway down the steps to the first floor when a blood-curdling scream froze me in my tracks and made my blood run cold.

_Isthalla.._

I stumbled into a run as a hundred, panicked questions raced through my mind. My heart thrashed in my throat, hands shaking as I took the last few steps in a leap and broke into a full sprint into the main hall.

"_I-Isthalla?_" I choked out in a disbelieving whisper. There she stood, bracing herself at the entrance of the basement with her right hand raised, parallel to a templar who floated off the ground a foot, twitching amidst a powerful, paralyzing spell. His screams of agony deafened the sounds of the other templars streaming in behind me. I could not move.

I couldn't breathe.

"_RESTRAIN HER!" _Ser Weston yelled. Two more ran forward, then abruptly were flung against the opposite wall and knocked unconscious. Isthalla's other hand raised threateningly into the air.

"_GET BACK!"_ she snarled as the glow around the templar in front of her increased, as did his thrashing and screaming. Greagoir stood at the front of the line, his hand brushing the hilt of his sword while raising the other.

"_Don't_, Isthalla-" he growled under his breath, the threat of his tone cutting her down with intent. I glanced, horrified, as I saw the three templars behind draw the swords all at once. Greagoir's eyes darkened as he began to pull his own.

He meant to kill her.

I turned around, begging for some sign, some miracle to stop this. I turned to find Irving stepping quietly to my side, the same horrified awe written on his face. My gaze jerked back to Isthalla.

"ISTHALLA!" I screamed, futile. She paused mid-preparation for another blow and turned directly to me. The light left her eyes instantly, and for a moment I felt everyone else in the room melt away. She was looking at me-directly at me-and no one else. My brow creased together in confusion and pain as I stared at her, still trying to understand what I was seeing.

I shook my head, disbelieving, as the horror began to leak back into my features. I saw such unmatchable anger in her eyes, but the moment she met my eyes it was replaced by a distinct fear that sent a cold chill into my stomach. Something told me she was about to do something she was going to regret..

_What has happened to you?_

"No, p-please," I begged, but it barely came out as more than a breathless whisper. Irving's hand was on my shoulder before I could signal my legs to step forward. I stood rooted to my spot, frozen in my shock, as I watched the scene unfold and crash at my feet. Greagoir's sword was raised in front of his face, his hands beginning to glow with his dispelling power.

"May the Maker have mercy on your soul," I heard the heavy words pound through my skull, spoken from the Commander's grave lips. My heart stopped.

I jerked from Irving's grasp and rushed forward, hands reaching out to grab Greagoir before he could strike.

A loud, piercing burst of light. A male's shout.

Red.

So much red, then blackness. Her voice was the last I heard.

"_JOWAN!"_

I saw him standing in front of her, a knife embedded in his right hand as the blood poured into his palm and rose into the air, weightless.

Then my world went away.


	14. A Memory

**Author's Note: **I'm going to (hopefully) assume you guys know by now that the big chunks of text in italics means a 'flashback'. Yeah… anyway continue on. As you were.

"_Hey," I heard his cheery voice before looking up to connect it to a face. My eyes were lazy, slowly lining up the armor to a bright, angular face of a happy templar. I blinked._

"_Hi," I said back, no hostility entering my voice. We were far past that from the days (or weeks) ago when every greeting felt like a burden. Cullen eased against the bookcase beside me and crossed his arms._

"_Listen, so I uh - heard it was your birthday today and-" he paused, fidgeting and shifting in his position until he finally decided it was too difficult to look casual and straightened back up. "I brought you something. That is-it's a present. For you."_

_I turned my full attention to him, utterly surprised as he pretended to look at the ceiling and held out a small, silk-wrapped parchment. I took the gift in silence and let it drop on my lap, staring at it like an alien creature. My brow creased._

"_What's this for?" I asked bluntly, unsure what to make of a present from a templar. He wasn't trying to pull one over on me, was he? I would curse his smallclothes for an eternity if he tried to pull that five-year-old rubbish on me. I turned accusing, mistrusting eyes to his face. He glanced down and blushed before shifting again and crossing his arms to face the doorway. He seemed awfully nervous._

"_Just something I thought you might like, yahknow..?" he said, trying so very hard to seem at ease. I narrowed my gaze and felt a small smile slipping onto my lips._

"_You don't have much practice with giving other people gifts, do you?" I teased. I heard an almost-laugh try to surface, but instead come out as an exasperated snort through his nose._

"_No, just with pretty magi, it seems," he said. A little grin betrayed me and curled on the edge of my lips. A few weeks ago he wouldn't have had the stones to say such a thing-I felt like my little templar boy was beginning to grow up. That or he was hanging around me too much._

"_That was cute," I laughed while crossing my arms and settling back into my seat. A sidelong glance told me no one was within a good twenty-foot radius; we were safe to talk for the moment. I was safe to ease up a bit-he could have that much, at least. _

"_What?" he asked, turning to me with that same, slightly bewildered look that so often stole his features. I chuckled again and nodded, my index pointing directly at his nose._

"_That," I said. "You're trying to be clever with me; I find it cute." This caused him to madly blush and turn his eyes away, frightened back into his safe hideaway hole where bashfulness and skittish behavior ruled his persona. I huffed out a sigh._

"_O-Oh I dunno what you.. mean," he stuttered, quickly trying to cover himself as he fell back into the same, hesitant safety net he knew too well. I rolled my eyes and shook my head with a faint smile._

"_We'll just have to work on your retentiveness to that, I suppose," I laughed, feeling warm. I was feeling in a generous, content mood today. Why not? Cullen looked expectantly at me-perhaps a little surprised as well at my generosity of conversation-before rubbing the back of his neck with one hand and smiling at the floor. I tilted my head. He did look rather cute sometimes when he smiled that way._

"_Yeah, I suppose.." he echoed in a quiet murmur. Before I had a chance to speak up again, another voice entered the conversation as Jowan bounded around a bookcase and practically laid himself on top of my books._

"_Isthalla, Isthalla, Isthaaalllaaaa-" he shrieked like a happy child while unknowingly stepping between the space where only Cullen and I had resided before. Cullen stepped away, putting his hands up in surrender as he nodded and took his cue, turning to walk away. I briefly nodded after him with a knowing smile._

"_Hello, Jowan," I laughed._

The world hazed back into my conscious in a fog of grey. I heard muddy, distant voices at first, then focused as they became louder and more irritating.

"I want him _LOCKED UP_! I will not have this _STUPIDITY_ in _MY TOWER!_" Greagoir's voice. The sound of muffled, agreeing templars. I opened one eye to find myself staring at the carpeted floor. I blinked, trying to recall the last moments of consciousness. Screaming. Jowan. Blood.

_Jowan…_

I was on my feet in an instant, circling around in a dazed panic and finding myself alone. The others were slowly coming to as well. Greagoir was already on his feet, storming back from the broken front gates where-undoubtedly-someone had just escaped through. I whirled around to find Jowan's spot now empty, and Lily huddled in the corner of the room with her hands covering her face. A knot formed in my chest.

"Don't even think about it, mage," Greagoir's voice cut through my thoughts like ice. I lowered my hand-which had been raised to comfort Lily-and turned hardened eyes right back to his face. I glared.

"Go to _hell_," I scoffed at him.

Greagoir's patience snapped. He exploded into a flurry of movement seconds later, grabbing me roughly by the wrists before jerking them behind my back and disabling me. A harsh elbow to my spine ensured my obedience as I doubled over and coughed, hissing in pain.

"As for _this _one, I have _no more tolerance_!" he roared over the still-dazed bodies lumbering out of their blackened nightmares. I could see Cullen at the far end of the room stumbling to his feet, his hands spread out against the stone wall for support. My heart jumped into my throat.

I opened my mouth to call out his name, and felt Greagoir's armored hand catch me sharply across the jaw. I shrieked in my surprise and sudden pain, buckling over once again as the throb set in. Greagoir was binding my hands with rope, but I felt numb to his actions, and even his words. They were beginning to turn into a dull roar, to be honest. I saw blood from my mouth drip onto the floor, mixed with tears. I felt the memory before the blackout begin to return to me with biting force.

Screams. A knife in his hand. I shut my eyes.

_Jowan… what have you done?_

Greagoir had me on my knees now, hands tied behind my back, and head hanging with my matted, black hair hiding my face. I felt ashamed, confused, and betrayed. Angry, injured tears began to slip down my face as I felt it sinking deep down into my chest and burning there like a fire.

_You lied to me, too. Even you…_

The shock would not subside. I couldn't focus, couldn't keep my attention on Irving and Greagoir shouting at one another as more and more magi and templars from the mess hall began to pour into the entrance foyer. The guards had all gotten to their feet now, circling me like scavengers prepared to strike. I glared at them, hated them, and hurt them with my eyes. It was my only protection now.

He stood at the farthest corner of the room, away from everyone else and hunkered in the shadows. He was backed into the wall as a caged animal, brown eyes widening every second the longer he stared at me. I looked at him with sullen, tear-stained eyes, lost to my own guilt and hurt. I could not fight anymore. I didn't want to. Disappointment fell on my face as I turned away from his accusing, horrified gaze and looked at the floor.

I could at least die with my conscious. I could not stand to face that look anymore; how it hurt more than anything I could know.

_I'm sorry… Cullen._

Bits and pieces of conversation. Arguing. Finally, a voice splitting through the numbed roar of faceless anger. A light.

"She is coming with me," he said, stepping forward. I raised my eyes level to his face, and found him standing in front of me. Dark, penetrating eyes that disturbed me still yet unearthed my respect in profound ways. I crumpled my face in what I couldn't place as anything other than disbelieving spite.

_Why, after all this? Why?_

I felt miserable. Powerless. Stupid. Why on earth would he give a damn about someone-something-so despised and useless? I couldn't even afford to protect Cullen, or Jowan. I couldn't even protect myself. I didn't want this human's misplaced pity. I hated it.

More mindless shouting from Greagoir-something I didn't care to decipher. My ears were numbed by the repetitive memory of Jowan's voice, cutting through the silence. His last, defiant words as he drove a knife into his hand and destroyed what was left of our life together. _He lied_.

"I invoke the Rite of Conscription," his voice cut through again. This time I turned my full attention to him, my wild, tear-stained eyes locking on his face. I couldn't understand his motives, nor understand what he was after. All that I knew in that moment was this-he was the only thing standing between me and execution.

_It takes a stranger to find your trust…_

Her voice mocked me still, echoing in my mind like a well-remembered parasite. I hung my head in my bitterness and heard the disruptive shouts of Greagoir as Irving forced him back.

"You are _no friend _of the Circle, Duncan!" he snarled. "_MARK ME! _I will have you _both_ _HANGED_ for this treason! You save an _abomination _that will make you regret this for the rest of your miserable _LIFE- GET OFF ME!"_

In my daze I realized I was walking, Duncan at my side as he guided me towards the door in a hurried stride. I looked over my shoulder and found Greagoir struggling to break free from Irving and Wynne's persistent hands.

"So _help me! _If you _EVER _bring that _abomination _back here - may the _MAKER _strike you down into the darkest _HELL _of the _Fade!"_

This was my final memory of the Circle.

I stepped out into the cool shores of Lake Calenhad for the first time and turned to find Duncan offering his hand.

"Come, Isthalla.." he said to me. I took his hand and stepped quietly into the boat.

"We have much to discuss."


	15. Born Leaders

**Author's Note: **I apologize for the perspective changes throughout the story, but I go by what suits the story best in terms of through-who's-eyes it should be seen by. I felt it appropriate to show this part of the story through Duncan's perspective so readers can have a better understanding of Isthalla through an outsider's view. This is also a very depressing chapter, since (I'm assuming) we already know what happens right after this.. At least that's how I felt when writing it haha. If it wasn't clear they are already at Ostagar and completed their quest in the Wilds.

I never knew what to expect of her. She was one of the rare cases I entered blindly, though not without some idea of what I could expect out of her. Her power was immense-though her temper was something I had not entirely accounted for. Perhaps that was my mistake; Irving had warned me, as had Greagoir. I believed there was a way to reach her yet, but something told me this was not her usual behavior.

"Have we settled in yet?" I stepped to the side of her by the campfire where she sat huddled, knees pulled in, and eyes wide and alert. She looked more like a frightened doe than the powerful mage I'd seen trying to take on the entire tower's militia to escape with her friends. She looked troubled as she stared down at her knees and shifted further away.

"Why even bother?" she muttered. I made a small noise in my throat and decided this was not a conversation that could be fixed standing up. I took a decisive seat beside her on a log and rested my elbows on my knees, clasping my hands together in a loose fashion. I looked down at her.

"What do you mean?" I tried. I had no intention of making her feel cornered or hostile. By what I had calculated, she was a very strong leader, like myself. She preferred to control conversations, especially. I did my best to offer her my neutral condolences. Her eyes flicked briefly to my hands, then back to the fire.

"You have no interest in my feelings, human," she muttered, hunkering down more into her arms. "So how about we save ourselves both the trouble of needless conversation and just get this Joining over with." A fighter as well, I could see. I cleared my throat and shifted more on my seat, carefully considering my words before I spoke. I decided she needed a subject change.

"I trust you are getting along all right with our other new recruits?" I tried again, casting a slightly hopeful look in her direction. I had hoped she would find more comfort in knowing she wasn't the only one - though I imagine the presence of the magi encampment so close to her own didn't help any. Perhaps it was why she decided to camp on the outskirts, away from everyone else.

I surveyed her surroundings-dark, bleak, and hidden. She felt vulnerable and afraid, though I knew she would never admit it. Her posture, hostile gaze, and white-knuckled fingers told me that much. I leaned back a foot to give her a little more space.

"You mean that band of miserable, ignorant boys?" she said rather spitefully after a pause. I felt surprised-I had at least expected her to get along with Alistair. He seemed like the kind she could easily get along with, as fierce as she was.

"Do you include Alistair in that assumption of yours?" I asked, feeling humor enter my voice. I suppose it was my mistake to believe she could get along with certain personalities. The fact was she intentionally chose not to befriend anyone, though I had a strong suspicion she had a natural hostility against humans based on how she had greeted me and many others since, especially if they were male. She seemed confused by my question, but soon her expression turned to a look of disdain as she sneered and looked to the side.

"Especially that one," she muttered. A long silence followed as I allowed her to decide what the next topic would be-if there were any. I did not feel pertinent to press the issue of winning her trust. Irving had pointed out that much - her trust was something slowly earned, not taken. Having her on the side of the Wardens would prove a great upper hand, indeed, but it would come in time. Irving had warned me not to dare rush her. I had no intention to press the matter; her history was fragile enough as it was without any external interference.

Delicate matters must be taken with delicate hands.

"I am sorry to hear that," I commented after I felt the pause appropriate enough. My hands unclasped as I stood to my feet and brushed off my seat of my robes. "I had hoped you could at least find one friend in the camp before we charged into battle. It tends to make things easier." She looked up.

"Easier to watch them die when the attack fails, you mean?" she laughed. It was a cruel and bitter laugh-full of a resentment I did not wish to delve into. I turned slowly to her, my brow troubled, and frowned.

"No, Isthalla," I said quietly, feeling a bit unsettled by her bitter outlook. This fight was entirely too soon-I had hoped she would be ready by now. "For support when you can find no hope to keep moving forward. Companionship can often inspire victory, and has turned the tide of battle before." She looked confused as she took in my words, her eyes turning back to the fire.

"But I am not saying you _must _make friends with your colleagues," I added, holding up my hand in explanation. Her eyes worried a bit less now. "Only that it helps," I added before turning to walk away. I heard shuffling behind me as she scrambled to her feet.

"W-Wait-"

I turned and found her hand half-raised in hesitation to her call. She retracted it back to her chest and seemed to ponder on her thoughts for a moment before looking back at me.

"W-What you did for me-" she started, then looked away when it felt too heavy. I turned fully to face her, my attention drawn by the abrupt sincerity in her voice. I rested my hand on the idle hilt of my belt and waited.

"No need to talk about it when you are not ready, Isthalla," I eased while nodding my head. She seemed to understand my invitation and nodded, taking a small step away. "In time," I added with a nod. My gaze flicked to hers, hardened but kind. "I understand."

"Thank you," she mumbled. I could tell this was in the realm of discomfort for her, and turned to face the main camp where the glow of scattered fire pits dotted the keep. I pressed my mouth together and sighed before turning back to face her.

"We should commence the Joining soon," I commented while trying in vain to spot the other recruits in camp. Isthalla seemed to catch my apprehension and stepped up beside me before crossing her arms.

"I shall go collect the others," she offered without giving me a chance to reply. I was, in truth, a little surprised she would offer her generosity at such a time, but saw it as a flickering sign of respect and nodded.

"Very well," I said. "Meet me by the archway when they are ready." I made a distinct point to let her know I had no doubts of her own ability to complete the Joining. She'd proven that much when retrieving the darkspawn vials of blood earlier that afternoon.

I had a feeling she did not need to prepare; the Harrowing was enough for any living being to go through. I knew she could handle it, even more so than the others at this point. She was ready.

She must be.

* * *

"Duncan-" her hand was on my arm, begging my attention. I turned, slightly surprised to find she was still lingering by the conference table. My eyes jumped to the others, who were already dispersing to their separate tents - Loghain and the King still argued amongst themselves while heading to Loghain's tent to prepare for battle. I turned back to Isthalla.

"Please," she hissed under her breath. "I don't need to be babysat by Alistair; let me go with you instead." I frowned and lightly removed her arm before stepping away. I turned to find Alistair walking up to me as well, and sighed. I had a creeping sensation this was going to turn out to be day-to-day struggle with these two.

"What do you mean, _babysit_?" he said incredulously while stepping up beside me as well, his mouth pulling into an indignant frown. Isthalla put one hand on her hip and jerked her head to him, looking entirely unimpressed.

"I don't blame him for wanting to make sure _you_ need to be protected," she commented sourly before flipping back to look at me, her eyes full of fire. "Let him deal with the petty beacon. I want to fight; I'm not a child!"

It was truly the first time she had shown any sort of interest in my cause; I was flattered, to be honest, but I knew that would only be showing favor to her side, and I was not one to go against the King's orders. I sighed and rubbed the bridge of my nose, frustrated. They were less than a day's journey in and already they bickered like two siblings over a favorite toy.

"Asking me out of the company of our King does not change the answer, Isthalla," I answered plaintively. Alistair seemed pleased with this response, and crossed his arms while presenting a rather smug grin in her direction. Isthalla scoffed and smacked him on the arm, instantly dispersing the smirk with a shriek of anger.

"Did you see what she just did, Duncan?" Alistair yelped. "That really hurt.." he added pitifully while rubbing his sore arm and frowning. I could already feel a headache forming; this was not something to be argued about right before battle.

"I wouldn't do it if you weren't such an ignorant, loud-mouthed _child_!" she snapped before turning back to me and lowering her tone. "Duncan, _please_-it's an insult and you know it. You _know _I am just as capable if not _more _than a dozen of these mindless idiots lumbering about camp."

I was a bit irritated to realize she had a very good point, though still defying authority. I was beginning to realize just what Irving meant by her '_stubborn attitude_'. I kept my nose wedged between the flesh of my thumb and forefinger as they continued bickering among themselves.

"Oh _what, _so it's not an insult if _I'm _the one doing it?" Alistair shrieked. A scoff.

"Yes, that's pretty much my _point_!" she snapped back.

"That's completely unfair!"

"Not if it's _true_," she shot back. "When are you going to _get_ it, Alabaster?" I removed my fingers from my nose and stared at them both.

"It's _Alistair_!" he shrieked back at her, gesturing wildly with his arms.

"I don't _care_! _I don't like you, templar_!" Isthalla snapped back. "_At ALL!"_

Truthfully, I should have seen it coming. The weight of her anger made sudden, painful sense as I recalled the events of the tower. Something personal had happened with that red-headed templar that caused her to stop mid-attack outside the basement entrance. I'd seen something change completely in her features when he entered the room, and it no doubt was the reason she failed to stop her friend from jumping in front of her. Though misplaced, her deeply-rooted fear and history with templars was no doubt the stem of this evil. I reached out and braced both hands on their shoulders before she could raise her fist and do any more damage.

"Both of you, calm your tempers. _Now_," I demanded. Isthalla fell quiet, her shoulders untensing under my grip as she took a reluctant step back.

"Now as much as I _wish _there had been more time to adjust you both to a new environment, the _fact _remains - we are on the edge of a war, and I _cannot _have you both bickering about your duties like _children_!"

Isthalla seemed to absorb my words much faster than Alistair, recoiling slightly in regret as she pulled a hand to her chest and flicked her eyes to the ground. Alistair seemed less aware of my point, and shrugged my hand off his shoulder before storming off.

"Just don't slow me down, mage," he mumbled to Isthalla while walking past. I watched him leave, my hand still on Isthalla's shoulder, and waited until he was out of earshot before turning my gaze back to Isthalla. She was staring hard at the ground, angry and full of an incomprehensible guilt. I squeezed her shoulder lightly.

"I know you are more than capable of fighting," I said quietly. "But I _need _you to work with Alistair. It is imperative that you cooperate with one another."

"Why?" she shot back at me. A blunt but effective question. My hand slipped from her shoulder as I straightened up and looked down at her.

She was defiant-full of a fire and fearlessness that Irving had warned me of continuously throughout my visit to the tower. I saw strength in it-the power to command and lead an army, even. She could lead the Wardens; I saw it in her eyes, in the defiance of her grip and the brimstone of her gaze. She could be their leader. I tensed my gaze and sighed.

"Because _I _need you to," I said honestly while replacing my hand, briefly, on her shoulder in earnest. She seemed affected by this, glancing once to her shoulder and back to me, then screwed up her expression before looking away and nodding.

"All right," she agreed after a hesitant pause. The fire left her eyes as she submitted to my request out of her own decision and, backing away, nodded again and followed after Alistair.

She had been through much - yet through her stubbornness I found a curious sense of judgment that sought justice. A trait of saving grace, I suppose. She deserved to hear praise for once, rather than countless disappointments I knew to be drilled into her head from so many years spent under the thumb of Greagoir's rule. I felt a bit of spite towards the man, and after what I had seen it only confirmed my truth. The magi deserved better than to be caged up like beasts, and Isthalla deserved better than that life.

By the time I resolved to my thoughts and looked up to find her, she was gone. I smiled faintly before heading myself over to the tents to prepare for the fight.

I would have to remember to thank her later once the battle was over.


	16. Tea

"So what do you _do_ exactly besides, y'know, making people feel miserable about their lives," I said, making sure to add a biting point to the end of my words. She shot a murderous, calculating glance over her shoulder before crouching lower and walking down the hallway.

"If you won't _shut up _about it before we get caught, I am a mage. In case you have forgotten since the last time you asked," she snapped back. Such a _clever _witch, wasn't she? I wasn't entirely impressed. Why would Duncan think she was even worth the trouble with her attitude, anyway? Sure, mages were sneaky and vile and sometimes really grumpy, but this was just _ridiculous._ I hadn't even _sai_ - well maybe a few things, but _still_!

"What crawled up your knickers and died?" I muttered under my breath while falling further behind her, hoping she wouldn't hear. She did.

She spun around in an instant, planting her feet apart and glaring me down with that same, viperous look I'd had to recoil under at least twice since we'd entered the tower.

"_LOOK _-" she paused, catching herself as her voice reverberated off the walls and lowered it to a snarling hiss instead. "_Look_, you insufferable, whining little _ass _of a an excuse for a templar-"

"Half-templar," I corrected a bit angrily.

"_Half-templar_, whatever!" she snapped back, leaning in closer so the other two soldiers wouldn't hear her. Her eyes narrowed. "I'm getting _quite_ close to testing out my powers on _you _instead of some mangy darkspawn who _probably _deserve it less than your sorry scrap of a hide!" I opened my mouth indignantly to respond, but found it stuttered short when I saw something move out of the corner of my eye.

"LOOK OUT!" I shouted, shoving her hard to the ground just as a lightning spell cracked over her shoulder. I heard her shriek in surprise as she hit the floor, and was spitting and angry on her feet a second later, ready to kill me when I pointed at the horde of darkspawn streaming from a nearby doorway.

"Oh _damn it all_," she seethed under her breath, her shoulders shrugging. I took a petrified step away as the horde grew, nearly crowding the hallway to the brim. My eyes widened.

"M-Mage-" I stuttered out as they began to rush at us in a massive collection of snarls and roars. "_M-Mage - d-do something!" _I had my hand on her shoulder now, shaking her. Why wasn't she _doing_ anything, why was she just _standing _there and Maker's _blood _that was more darkspawn than I could handle in one sitting.

"_ISTHALLA_!" one of the men behind me shouted. Almost instantly she reacted to the call, her arms moving mechanically as she raised her staff above her head and I felt a cold, tightening sensation begin to pull towards her like an energy. It took the very wind from me as I stumbled back, my sword brandished dumbly in my hand as I froze in my shock - along with the other two - and watched her entire body lift slightly off the ground with her spell.

The horde was less than ten feet away when, in one fluid, flashing moment, she threw her arms forward and released what looked like a giant, spiraling flash of light from the end of her staff. The pulling sensation that had begun to make my chest grow tight and uncomfortable was pulled in the opposite direction as I felt a sensation akin to water rushing out of my lungs and the pressure leaving me. I buckled over onto my knees, as did the other two, and took a shuddering breath in. My vision was spotting.

"_Maker's blood_, what was that?" one of the soldiers whispered. My eyes, which had been staring at the floor, jerked up the moment I remembered that - hey - there was a charging horde in front of us a moment ago. My jaw fell open in utter shock to find them still there, still charging - yet they were not moving. One was still running mid-air, his feet disconnected from the ground.

"_W-What-_" I tried to stutter out, but the words formed dumb and confused on my lips. She turned around and faced us all then, a rather unimpressed frown on her lips.

"That was the Fade, Phillip," she spoke to the other soldier. The other-soldier-that-wasn't-me. I stared at her, shocked and too afraid to try and ask again as my eyes continued to stare down the frozen horde and wonder if I was dreaming.

"The F-Fade? I thought that was only a mage-thing," he breathed out while straightening back to his feet.

"It is," I heard her say from somewhere behind me. I couldn't look away from their faces. What kind of magic _was _this? The hairs were beginning to prickle on my neck in fear.

"I employ a very difficult but specialized type of magic that disables, entrances, or petrifies any foe in my way, however you wish to see it," she continued on, leisurely strolling around my right as if it _wasn't a Big Deal_. "I gain complete control of their minds and do what I wish," she shrugged. I turned to her, mouth agape, and found a smug gleam in her eye as she stepped back around front.

"I apologize for such a brief explanation, but I suppose it is only appropriate. What you felt was my power tearing the Fade, but no more time to explain-" she paused, picking back up her staff in her hands and planting her feet apart.

"Why?" I asked, not entirely sure if I _wanted_ to know why. I began to take slow steps away from her, sudden mistrust creeping under my skin from the _look _she'd just given me. My eyes narrowed.

"_Why_," she echoed airily, looking over her shoulder, "because you have about five seconds longer to take your pick of them, templar."

I had no time to argue, and instead found myself turning to face a re-animated crowd of darkspawn rushing at us. My first instincts screamed at me to _Run! For the love of Andraste, RUN! _but after a few feet of sprinting I turned to find Isthalla still planted directly in the middle of the large hallway, her staff raised and body at the ready.

What was she, _barking MAD?_

"ISTHALLA!" I rushed forward, but seconds before I could reach her found my entire body slammed with a pounding force that sent me flying back a good ten feet. The darkspawn that had rushed her front also went toppling over their brethren, creating a mass pile of confused, shrieking, squalling horde. It would have been amusing if our lives weren't on the line and she hadn't, y'know, _thrown _me a good ten damn yards away.

The other two didn't seem to care that I could have been knocked unconscious, and rushed forward once her spell was complete, brushing past her and directly into the still-upturned pile of darkspawn trying to scramble to their feet. I was halfway between deciding to scold her or _kill _her myself when I stopped dead in my tracks, my sword clanking heavily against the stone floor at the sound of her _laughing._

She began to effortlessly shoot hexes at any darkspawn trying to - again - blindly rush her, easily knocking them down or paralyzing them as if they were blocks of wood. Her malicious laughter sent every hair on my body standing on end - it wasn't _laughter_, it sounded more like evil _cackling _to me. Suddenly I had the sensation that this woman was absolutely stark, raving _mad_.

The last of the horde were cut down by Phillip's sword before they realized they were losing. She had stopped laughing by that point, thank the Maker (honestly I wasn't sure if I could keep fighting with _that _noise in the background like some demented child) and was busy wiping off blood from the sleeve of her arm when I stormed up to her.

"What was _that_?" I barked, gesturing wildly with my hands to the fallen corpses on the ground. She raised a lazy brow in my direction, that same smug frown on her lips, before turning back to look at the bodies herself and decide.

"Darkspawn, by the looks of it," she commented off-handedly while stepping over one towards the next exit. I felt my blood beginning to boil again.

"Oh _haha _very clever for a witch, we're _all_ laughing," I snapped back while following after her. Before I could get a second remark in, I felt a very rough and intentional hand on my shoulder, pulling me back. I shot a glare at Phillip, who gave me a _don't-test-the-witch_ look before stepping ahead of me. I let out a disgusted sigh and followed after them at the back of the line.

"Did I anger you, Aleander?" she tittered back to me harmlessly. I frowned harder while muttering curses irritably under my breath.

"It's _Alistair_," I added in a shout to the front of the line.

"_Alexander_, whatever," she waved a flippant hand. "And you failed to answer my question." Chastising as well, I could see. Maker, she reminded me of the Revered Mother the more and more I was forced to listen to her grating, superior tone.

"I'm _not _angry, I'm-" I started, huffing and cursing as I nearly tripped over another stray body, "I'm _furious_!" I tried kicking off a scrap of garment that decided to catch my boot and nearly tripped.

"Maker's _blood _did you have to knock them over so _inconveniently _in every damn walkway?" I spat, feeling my blood rise as I hopped over another one. She was glancing over her shoulder now, and I could have _sworn _I saw a grin flicker on her mouth.

"Do my powers _inconvenience _you, then? I'd be more than happy to just let you soft-footed turtle doves sit this one out, if it so suits you?" she mocked in an even airer, arrogant tone. I felt the third soldier shove brutally past me, giving me that _look _as well before stalking up front, one hand on the hilt of his sword.

"We're _fine_, mage," he grumbled, stepping in front of her to lead the group. "Let's just get this over with." She seemed absolutely tickled by his bravery, and gasped while putting a hand to her chest.

"And here I had assumed we had all _forgotten _that little fact," she remarked flatly while still retaining that rather creepy, delighted look on her face. I was beginning to feel more and more unnerved by the woman. Did Duncan honestly expect me to stop a _blight _with this mage? She would sooner _kill _me and have tea with the Archdemon then continue playing target practice, as that was what I assumed she felt this mission had become. I was a bit disgusted by the whole thing, really.

"This isn't exactly a laughing matter," I complained after the silence had grown too strained and irritating for me to handle. By now she had fallen back behind the other two soldiers - perhaps to decide which she wanted to turn into a frog first - and shot a glance over her shoulder at me.

"I certainly found you flying through the air and then cowering like a little child rather funny," she nodded back to me. I felt my ears burning red, and dared myself to try and hold my tongue.

"_Please try.." _Duncan had begged me when I refused to accompany her to the tower of Ishal. It seems I wasn't the only one who was less-than-happy about the grouping arrangements. Honestly I would have rather been stuck with Daveth than this lot…

"Shut it," a new voice entered the conversation. Phillip was up front, rigid in posture and holding up a warning hand over his shoulder. I fell silent and still as I drew my eyes ahead and felt my senses go on alert. She came to a dead stop beside me, her eyes narrowing.

"What is it?" I murmured under my breath to her, knowing those giant elf ears sitting on her head were used for more than just looks. She flicked me a knowing gaze that made me truly wonder if she could read thoughts, then looked back up front.

"Darkspawn," she spoke the words bitingly, a sneer on her red lips. I creased my brow, feeling the tension rise on my skin. I could sense it, too.

"More than one, you think?" I asked, wondering if she had a better affinity for this "sensing" thing than I did. Honestly, it was really hard to tell other than the unnerving crawling that took over my skin whenever they were nearby. I don't know if I could get use to it. Ever.

She shook her head.

"No, just one," she said, but the words were deliberate and serious. I frowned as her hand began to slowly reach for her staff slung over her back, and her hand raise.

"A really big one-" she whispered before stepping ahead of the other two on the staircase and raising her staff at the ready. I felt a knot forming in my throat.

"Right, so just _one really big one_ we have to worry about," I said mutedly, the nervousness entering my voice as I brandished my sword tightly in my palm and felt Phillip's shoulder brush my armor as he took a step back, letting Isthalla take the lead again. Bad sign.

"I'm sure this will be simple."


	17. What Matters

_Yes_, I admit it. I didn't like her. I could care less if she wanted to run headlong into a massive group of darkspawn, arms flailing and staff raised about her head, but _Maker's blood _I had never had _any _desire to see her die. I hadn't wanted… _this_.

"Pick your head up, boy," hissed the elder witch. "Your friend lives."

_She's not my friend_.

The words instantly formed in my head, though dissolved the second _"lives_" filtered through my mind. I jerked red, bleary eyes out from under my arms and was on my feet in an instant, searching a plane of darkness for the source of living, breathing _light _that I knew to be hope. To be _her_, standing in front of me with a wonderful frown deepening on her lips and the look of fury in her eyes.

"Y-You're _alive_," I felt the words breath out of me in a shudder, the tears pricking my eyes once more. A slightly more-disgusted frown seemed to form on her lips - or perhaps it was a look of unsettled something - as I rushed forward, unthinking, and threw my arms around her. I needed to feel her there, know she was alive. She tensed and shoved me away before I, too, realized what I'd done, and we quickly parted from one another as I met her eyes again. Fire.

"I-I thought, s-surely-" I started in, but couldn't finish the sentence. Everything felt far too heavy to be discussed. I didn't want to think about it. Instead, I shut my eyes and felt a raspy, withering sigh tremble on my lips. I felt a breath of wind as she quickly moved past me towards the swamp.

"W-WAIT!" I felt the words slip again as I wrenched around, disrupted by her sudden movement. I needed for her to be _here _and close where I could see her and tell myself she was real. That she wasn't…

Wasn't…

"_What?_" she snarled back. Too fierce, too angered.

I suddenly had the prying theory that her abrupt and unusual anger was.. not really anger at all. It was a justification of her fear. Her hurt. I felt a pang in my chest at the sight of her - she was bandaged and wounded yet still looked as fierce as ever. She jerked around to face the swamp once again and crossed her arms tightly to her chest. I saw her fingers digging into her sides, as if trying to press in on herself to hide away from everyone. She was vulnerable.

"I thought you were dead for sure," I murmured, feeling the weight sinking back down on my chest as the phrase emptied in my mind, echoing the distance of what it truly meant.

_Because everyone else is…_

"Don't be so quick to assume I am that disposable," she bit back, still refusing to face me. I felt her words slam me in the chest like an iron weight, stung by them.

"I-Is that what you _think_?" I choked out, my voice wavering on the unsteady terror and pain that I had been trying so hard to push back down. I felt it welling to the surface again, clawing it's way out of my chest in waves. The pain would not lessen.

She turned around, her eyes cold fire as she narrowed her gaze and pulled her mouth into a sneer. I let my mouth hang open, baffled. Shocked by her indifference.

"You aren't just some _hunk of meat _I intended to _throw _at a massive horde of darkspawn!" I cried. "You're a _living being_, and you surviving _matters_." I shook my head, feeling the tears obscure my vision again as I stared at my boots and sunk into my shoulders. "I didn't want you to _die_…" I murmured as an afterthought, deciding it was too much to try and continue talking.

She continued to stand there - or so I assume - as rigid as ever with the same empty sneer written across her face. Her arms crossed, briefly, then uncrossed as she stepped across the way and decisively took her place adjacent to the elder witch, who had otherwise remained silent.

"You shouldn't-" she started, but then stopped. I raised my blurry eyes level to her face, and found her expression unfamiliar. I tried to blink the tears away, and managed to make out a confused, slightly retracted expression on her features. I tensed my brow and frowned.

"Shouldn't _what_?" I said. "Shouldn't _cry?_ _Everyone _is dead! The King, all of the soldiers… _Duncan_." My voice cracked into a quiet sob at the end, and I shook my head forcibly to gather myself, fists tightened at my side. "They _died_ and we did _nothing _to stop it!"

"We could _do NOTHING_!" she shouted, abruptly changing my direction to stare at her face. I could have sworn I saw tears brimming in her eyes, but my own were too blurred to make it out. I sniffed them back in a sudden necessity to understand her anger, and straightened up in my posture.

"I could have gone back!" I argued, defiance in my grip and fire in my eyes. She stepped forward, hands braced at her side as she glared me down with murderous intent and wavered on my judgment.

"And _what_? Died valiantly to accomplish _more _failure?" she snapped in an almost condescending, bemused way. I felt my blood boiling with a sudden, raging desire to hit her. My hands shook at my sides, restrained only by my single shred of tolerance left to my system.

"Duncan _DID NOT FAIL_!" I shouted back.

"His mistake was letting some stupid, _foolhardy BOY_ play swords and shields when he _KNEW _the true danger of what _could_ and _DID _happen!"

"So it's _his _fault he died, then is it?" I shrieked back, incredulous, with tears in my eyes again. I was enraged by her cold-hearted indifference to his death. Horrified by her, shocked and terrified that a creature could be so merciless about the massacre of their own comrades.

Two hands were between us before I could register my newfound anger against her. They pushed us apart, chiding but firm, and allowed a space large enough to let the air rush back into my lungs and let the world around me clear. I blinked through my haze, staring at the forest floor, then slowly turned my gaze to the elder witch standing between us.

"Continue talking as if I am not here," she spoke to herself, irritated. I felt the anger leave me in a second's breath, too weary to feel it and too wounded to want it. I worried my brow and turned to her, feeling misguided guilt creep into my subconscious.

"I am sorry," I murmured, bowing my head. "We owe you… _everything_ for saving our lives. For saving…" I glanced at her, trying to remember a name and a bit upset that I couldn't, "_her _as well.."

"I have a name," she muttered. Anger colored her voice again; a same anger I wasn't sure _ever _left her features at any time. I screwed up my face in confusion and recognition, and turned back to the elder woman with newfound respect.

"I-I didn't mean…" I searched for words, wanting to apologize for ignoring her, for not thanking her the moment I awoke, but I could find none. I shook my head instead, needing to have at least one name on my memory for recollection. "..What do we call you? You never told us your name." My eyes flicked to the slightly more familiar face of the dark-haired witch from the Wilds, who stood idly by with a concerning smirk on her lips. I grimaced.

"Though fancying names are not my trade - I am decorated, on occasion, by the title of _Flemeth_," she worded in a cantering tune that sounded a bit too amused. Fear suddenly struck my bones in deep, petrifying recognition of the name as I recoiled into my arms and swallowed.

"_The _Flemeth? From the _legends_?" I spoke the words, though they felt untrue even on my lips. I shook my head, turning my gaze to the ground instead as I recalled the stories told by the campfire on the previous night. "Daveth was right," I said incredulously, "you're the Witch of the Wilds, aren't you?" She scoffed at my remark.

"And what does that mean?" she said while crossing her arms. "I know a bit of magic, and it has served you both well, has it not?"

It came to my attention that _she _hadn't said a word since my inability to recall her name. My gaze flicked to the spot where she _had _been, and was both surprised and slightly unsurprised to find it empty. I jumped to attention.

"It seems your friend is not so keen to offer her thanks," Flemeth laughed. I didn't find it funny; rather, I felt the sudden, creeping sensation of terror and worry take hold of me. The wilds were dangerous, full of darkspawn. What was she thinking?

I was off in an instant, bolting in the direction that the dark-haired witch lazily gestured towards, hearing the same melodic laughter from Flemeth behind me.

"Better hurry and catch her before the darkspawn eat her bones for dinner!" she cackled after me. I felt a chill run up my spine.

I fell to a slow jog as the woods thickened around me, head jerking this way and that for any signs of her. _Damn it _of all the times I had to forget a name…

"Mage!" I called, hoping by some forsaken hope it would rile her out of the bushes… or something to that effect. I knew, at least, it was a less-than-endearing term on her ears. I cupped my hands around my mouth.

"_MAGE!_" I called again, my voice becoming desperate and worried. A sob interrupted my third shout as I fell completely still and slowly connected my eyes to the sound, disbelieving.

She was curled up on her knees in the crook of a giant tree, head in her hands, and the sound of sobs coming from between them. My eyes widened, unsure what I was seeing, before I jumped back to life and fell to my knees at her side.

"_Isthalla_," I croaked (and then, _suddenly_, I remembered it), and reached out an unsure, hesitant hand for her shoulder. She was slapping it away and on her feet in an instant, both hands lit up with an enraged and _literal _fire I was suddenly very interested in getting away from as she jumped back and snarled.

"_GET AWAY!_" but her voice had still not found its legs again, and I heard the crack in her otherwise fierce tone. The tears still stained her eyes, fresh and marked by the grimace overtaking her anger. She was hurt, and I couldn't help but feel confused by her violent display of hostility.

"Please, Isthalla!" I begged, holding up my hands in surrender. _Maker's breath _she looked terrifying. Her eyes were white and glowing with a spell I had not witnessed beforehand, just barely on the edge of release, before she abruptly relaxed and the light left her completely. I let out a sudden, whooshing breath I had been holding and put a cold, damp forehead to my palm, shaking slightly.

"_Maker's blood.._" I shuddered, "I almost thought you were going to _smite_ me for a moment, there." I let the feelings return to my fingers - still not accustomed to the sensation akin to my soul being sucked out from the Fade tearing - and stood back to my feet with a nervous laugh. She was not laughing. Not even smiling.

She glared at me with the intensity of molten lava, then slowly raised her chin higher in the air.

"One more _'mage'_, and I would have," she said very seriously, "_-human_."


	18. Bearer of Guilt

"Where are your friends now?" she asked. Her mocking laughter was more than I could bear. I grasped my head in my hands, searching for a meaning.. For an answer to this. Such destruction.

"_W-Why?_" I growled through clenched, angered teeth. I could feel the sting of tears still blurring my vision, hazing out the world in a fog of watery gray and smoke. I looked up to find her poised there, hovering above the ground a few inches with her long tail flicked out behind her.

"Such _mortal _questions, my love," she purred, a smile poising on her purple lips. Her black eyes were empty and void - a treacherous hole for any creature to look into. I tensed my brow together as I saw their faces reflected - each one, a sharp stake to my memory. A blinding pang of guilt and regret.

"Hush," she whispered, her clawed finger brushing the width of my face. I eased into her hand in a temporary blindness for comfort, then drew quickly away as I stood to my feet and forced the turmoil back down.

"I will not stay here," I snapped, feeling my fists tighten at my sides in determination. I would not just sit here in the Fade like some useless puppet, waiting as the rest of the world died. Her tinged, poisonous laughter abruptly turned my head, seeking atonement for her lack of mercy as I shot her a glare.

"They are _gone_," she grinned, her face changing once more to the familiar, white skin I remembered. Black raven hair tumbled down her back, and piercing yet warm amber eyes looked back at me. She was a breath's reach from my face; I could feel the heat of her lips next to my skin. "_They are gone_," she repeated into the width of my neck, solemn and quiet. "_Let them go_," she murmured, and what a sweet desire it was to remain. "Stay here with me," she whispered. I felt her hands on my neck now, clawing their way ever-so-lightly around my skin in a song of death. I leaned back, inviting it, wanting it.

_Take me, kill me…_

A great, erupting pain from my chest, and I gasped in a swooping breath. Life like I'd never known came rushing back in - waves of ice cold heat that stung my body like knives. I gasped until I choked on my breath, back arching and fingers numb as I dug them into the bed and returned to the conscious world. A painful, bleak, and dark world. My red eyes searched the ceiling as I tried my best to grasp the fleeting memory of her laughter, her touch, and her hair. Sweet poison.

_Sweet, sweet Isthalla…_

_I am yours…_

"I see that you are awake," she spoke, turning half-wild wolf eyes on me. I remembered those eyes, piercing and open looks that they were. She reminded me of an all too familiar forgotten dream that buried itself in the realm of my dreams, yet could not grasp. I brushed away the thoughts of sing-song fires and heathen dances under the moon.

_Fire dances like the ashes of a dragon…_

_How she sings._

I groaned the second I registered my pain - a faintly and foggy pain - and crumpled over myself in the bed. My hands brushed against the bandaging, jolting my slightly-alarmed features down to my torso. I was used to the Tower, the tower with its teams of healing magi and infirmaries for even the slightest injuries. The Tower-Where-Nobody-Practiced-Shooting-Arrows kind. Arrows that had pierced me. Poisoned me, and almost murdered me.

_Goodbye, sweet poison…_

I shook her laughter away, turning my lopsided vision to the woman so scarcely dressed at my bedside. Her Witch-Wild eyes hunted me down across the room in the shady darkness of the fire. Milk-white skin blazed under the glow, and suddenly I wanted to be outside in the fresh air. It felt entirely too cramped in this shack and reeked of death.

"Let me up," I hissed through a sore jaw.

"Pay me no mind," she snapped, stepping out from the shadows and under the light of a candle by my bedside - or, technically _her _bedside. "We were only the ones that saved your lives."

I shot her a critical, calculating look before narrowing my eyes and sitting up fully in the bed, legs swinging over the sides. My lungs were still on fire.

"I'm sorry," I mumbled, forcing myself to my feet too quickly and finding myself swaying to the side. She barely steadied me with one absent gesture of a hand, then forcefully nudged me away. I grumbled a thank you before retrieving my clothes and, quickly dressing myself, hurried out the wooden door and into the bleary, gray light of midday in the wilds.

And there he was, looking as a lost puppy with tears stinging his eyes as ever and personified by the broken heart of a lonely survivor of war.

"Y-You're _alive_…"

The words were profound and painful, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to escape from that familiar sound of tragedy nipping at my heels.

_Don't make me do this again.._

* * *

I was running, not sure where. Somewhere. Anywhere but _there_, where words suffocated and crippled me with memory. With _pain_. With the guilt of knowing I had done nothing again to stop it. I couldn't see where I was going, and was stumbling and tripping over roots and branches alike until a tree caught my ankle and sent me crashing to the ground.

I shrieked in pain as my body crumpled into a heap on a bed of dead leaves and stale dirt. I laid there momentarily, sinking into my own skin, letting the weight push my body deep down into a darkness before crawling to all fours and sinking against the tree, huddled between its giant roots.

His face _haunted _my memory.

Scalded me.

Destroyed me.

_He gave everything to save you, and you let him die.._ I gripped my head with the force of regret, and felt a slow, stuttering sob of agony began to tear at my lips. _You selfish, beastly, disgusting coward._ _He respected you._ I could feel it beginning to rise in my chest; a great agony disrupting from the center of my heart, tearing down everything in its path. I swelled into my despair, and felt it erupt in a great, massive scream from my lips as I dug my nails into my skull and wept.

_I have killed you._

I wept until the pain became too great. Knots formed in my chest, sharp and pricking, as I struggled for breath, aching for it with the neediness of a terrified child. I choked on another sob as I bit my lip and squeezed my eyes shut, wanting the weight of it to leave, if only for a second. I couldn't bear this, not _this…._

_Why did you leave me to this?_

Another wave overcame, this one now begging the question of grief and blame, as I curled into my arms and covered them over my head, trying to hide and protect myself. I rocked back and forth, trying to subside. Trying to crawl my way out of the desperate madness when a voice shattered the private walls that I had built around myself.

"_Isthalla_?" he asked me. _Isthalla_ he asked, questioning me, looking at me like a lost puppy that needed answers. I _had _no answers! I had _nothing_ now! I had-

"GET AWAY!" I shrieked, tearing to my feet in a fit of rage and horror that he would dare approach me. I couldn't stand the sight of him; a reeking reminder of my failure, my blame. My mouth contorted into a raging snarl as I raised my hands, preparing to strike.

_Kill him.._

And in an instant, I stopped, feeling her poison reaching down into the widths of my fingers. My hand retracted hesitantly, eyes lessening as the power faded from my hands and I witnessed the horror of my actions in the white of his eyes.

_Please, Isthalla!_

I had no recollection of the spell conjuring, only jumping to my feet. I retracted wounded, horrified arms to my chest as I witnessed the fear slowly leaving his eyes, but remaining long enough for me to witness the story beforehand. I had nearly killed him, and I'd had no control of it.

_What have you done?_

A well-remembered echo in my head from another man, another fearful shout that relented helpless hands to the heavens, begging my mercy that I would have not given. My eyes widened at the memory.

"_No, no please, Isthalla! They'll hear you!" he begged, his eyes darting over my shoulder to the sound of a distant, vague shout. _

"_THEN LET THEM HEAR!" I roared. He froze, that look of inkling terror beginning to form in his eyes. I stood over him, both hands aglow now as my eyes turned into an empty, white void and I pointed a defensive hand at him. He recoiled and held up his hands, pleading._

"_You don't understand, PLEASE!" A white void took over, and no longer did I feel a connection from my anger to the spell forming in my hands. Blind, enraged fury reddened my eyes._

"_STEP BACK!" a templar called, but it was distant and vague. Muddied. My final thoughts came with his shout; the last sane memory before I fell into blackness and a familiar, silken laugh echoed in my subconscious._

_He will never know.._

"_NO!" _

I fell back on my heel, pressing my eyes shut in repression as my arms curled around my torso. Something painful swallowed in my throat, and a whispering breath later I forced my eyes back open and looked at him, pressing silent lips together and unguarded eyes drawn to his face. I forcefully narrowed my eyes in a last attempt of self-preservation when he looked up. An empty threat.

"…I thought you were going to smite me for a moment there." I caught the ends of his conversation, which had been entirely blank to my mind seconds before. I cleared my throat.

"One more _'mage' _and I would have," I croaked, still not fully understanding my anger, "_-human_." The words were dull and empty on my lips, but had enough effect on him that he took a step back and frowned in easy recognition. The moment passed before he understood.

"Right, well," he picked up without a second's pause. "Remind me never to try and help again.." There was a blissful ignorance to his tone; something that I envied. So much death and destruction and yet he still managed to flip back onto the lighter sensations that so fleetingly escaped my grasp. Misery was my constant, and how I envied that of a child's bliss.

I was far too old now, far too..

"Well if we are done talking-" a third, female voice entered the conversation. Less unwanted than _his _but, still..

"I was not talking," I butted in, crossing my arms and shooting a hostile glare in her direction. She grinned amusedly.

"There were words coming out of your mouth, were there not?" she harmlessly tested in my direction. I met her gaze, briefly, lingering on the predatory smile in her wild eyes that I knew all too well. I frowned.

"Yes, but I was not _talking_," I ground out. She looked surprised, then - absorbing.

"I see," she said while ticking a brow. Her gaze turned to Alistair instead, newfound disgust forming on her features. "_Mother _would like to see you," she spoke over her shoulder, though still looking at Alistair.

"Me?" he asked stupidly. The dark-haired witch scoffed.

"Not _you, imbecile._ The _mage_," she snapped. I shouldered past her without another second's worth of patience.

"_Isthalla_," I muttered past while forcibly pushing Alistair out of my way and stalking a path back to the hut. I didn't care to stay and listen to their catty banter, which had already carried itself out seconds after I walked away.

"I am not stupid!"

"Is that so?"

"…Am I?"

"If one must ask…"


	19. Sweet Insanity

"_Mother, I have some peculiar and disturbing news for you," she spoke, taking a step alongside me with a well-known smirk on her face. I tersed my lips in agitation to her riddle-like speak. How childish it was._

"_Well which is it, girl? Peculiar or disturbing?" I asked, gesturing irritably with one hand. "Or perhaps it is one while the latter is disturbing." So many possibilities it could be. _

"_Well, I-" she stuttered on her words, perplexed by my short words as if they had conjured adjacent to me. Was this not a surprising thing, my chastising?_

"_Quit being so vague, dear," I added, this time a bit more gently. I had forgotten, or did forget at times that children had soft minds. They needed to be spoken to… kindly. Annoying things._

_Morrigan seemed entirely content by my response, and flashed a crooning smile in my direction. I reflected the bitter grin on my old lips, feeling my skin dry and stretched across a fanged face that was not my own. I was too old and wrinkly for this smiling business._

"_I have met some guests," she finally corrected herself in triumph. I raised a brow and looked about, not seeing another body in my company._

"_Well, then where are they?" I asked in irritation. Her triumphant grin fell to a flat, dull frown when she absorbed this information as well - truly, it was hard to forgive the girl for her daftness at times - then strengthened when she saw my look of false appreciation singing in my eyes._

"_I have not truly met them, so to speak," she admitted in a meek voice. I huffed._

"_Do speak up, Morrigan. You mumble as a mouse, sometimes," I snapped while stepping back over to my stew boiling over the fire. She stood idly to one side for a moment, watching me as she nervously crossed and uncrossed her arms in a force of habit. "And do something useful with your hands if you are going to flail them about all day," I added. She quickly leaned over the pot and took over stirring for a moment while I fetched the spice from our rack._

"_So," I spoke in a more cantering tune, a lighter stem of amusement from this newfound morsel of news she had brought me. "Who are they?" I raised a spoonful of the stew to my lips to taste._

_Needs more salt._

"_Wanderers… scavengers.." she picked apart possibilities like random stars in the sky. I sighed irritably and stood to my feet._

"_..Or perhaps tulips dressed as daisies!" I shrieked in my impatience, throwing my hands into the air._

"_I have only watched them mother!" she stood to her feet, angry now at my intolerance. I scoffed._

"_And by watching you should learn something, should you not?" I snapped. "And what right gave I to allow you to flounce about the woods so close to strangers again?" She fell back on her heel in a dull stupor now, surprise written on her face._

"_Aha!" I barked. "So I have caught you on it, then have I? Thought you could be sneaking around mother's back when she isn't looking - well I'm glad I taught you so well to turn your back on me so quickly, daughter!" _

"_M-Mother, I didn't mean-" she started, but fell short as the words fell short in concept. Too tired for her senseless ramblings, I heaved a great and heavy sigh and fell into my armchair, letting my arms rest listlessly over the sides._

"_Just as well," I murmured, "You are a smart and conniving witch." I felt a little laugh catch in my throat, ending on a bitter note. "Much like myself," I sighed, feeling the anger leave me all with one breath. I shut my eyes._

"_I-I am… sorry if I angered you mother," she spoke, now at my side. I opened one eye to glance at her, then felt it was too much effort and shut them again. Her hands rested on mine._

"_I was afraid they would discover us, so I followed them instead," she explained. _

"_And what were they doing?" I asked, the weary anxiousness beginning to creep back into my tone. I had little to no tolerance for strangers wandering about in my wilds. The darkspawn knew well of that rule, and had learned to keep it._

"_I-I don't know," she answered. My eyes snapped open to look at her again, demanding more information. She looked away._

"_I think they were searching for something," she said while standing to her feet, frustrated with her own lack of knowledge. She truly was ignorant to the situation, wasn't she?_

"_And that elf mage," she hissed. "I cannot believe the way she just parades about our woods as if she owns them!" I could hear the anger and jealousy entering her voice. It amused me._

"_Feel you will be outmatched by a little elfling?" I laughed. "That is unbecoming of you, my daughter." She whirled on me then, furious._

"_You did not see her, mother!" she yelped. "She contorted an entire horde of darkspawn to her will, even making them turn on one another!" _

_Now it was time to be interested._

"_What do you mean, girl?" I asked cautiously, my eyes narrowing and fingers digging indentions into the ends of the chair. Morrigan shook her head in disbelief._

"_I've never seen magic like that before," she said gravely, then turned her accusing eyes to me. "__**Why **__haven't I seen magic like that? Am I not strong enough to practice it?" I found her accusations blind and dry, and her suddenly threatening gaze rather amusing._

"_Ha!" I scoffed. "You think I would secretly keep magic from you simply because you cannot handle it?" Oh, the notion!_

"_Foolish girl," I glared, leaning forward more in my seat and pleased at the sight of her crumpling back into her posture. "Magic is only restricted by our willpower, and nothing more. You are free to practice anything you wish if it is within your control. I have no reason to stop you."_

_She seemed to accept this answer, and fell short on her anger, glaring at the floor as an outlet for such misplaced anger. I ran the idea over in my mind, and felt a sudden, brilliant epiphany all of my own come staggering to my heels._

"_Morrigan," I spoke. She looked up in an instant, drawn like an obedient dog to my command. Such a silly girl._

_I grinned._

"_Tell me of her magic," I purred. "I would like to know what this little elfling has up her sleeve."_

"_Mother?" _

"_Bring her to me," I ordered. She looked at me as if I were speaking another language. Foolish daughter._

"_Bring. Her." I spoke the words clearly and slowly, so that she may understand with her deaf ears. "-To. Me." Stupidity makes for stupid conversation._

"_Yes, mum." she nodded and headed towards the door. Daughters did not need to be told twice, or it was surely a lashing._

_Mum truly is the word._

* * *

This girl, this little _elfling _was far from what I had expected.

Of all things, she was easily and so readily killed by simple _arrows!_ Well - almost killed. I had been a somewhat timely intervention on that part. But still-

"You are not what I had expected," I spoke rather amusedly as I saw her approaching out of the corner of my eye. She fell to a dead halt on her heel when I interrupted whatever private thoughts she had been battling. I turned to look at her, doe-eyed virgin thing that she was. She did not look like her, did not even have the presence of she. I narrowed my gaze.

"Well speak; you have been addressed, girl," I spat. This seemed to alter her persona to a more fierce, bristled elfling that mirrored more of what I expected. I grinned.

"I do not _speak _on command, witch," she snapped back at me. I could see that her eyes were red from fresh if not recent tears, which meant her guard was down. This was not her full potential. A pity, really. I wanted to see it.

"Funny, I thought that was what _you _were, girl," I chuckled, crossing my arms to turn my attention back to the muggy swampland of my wilds. A pleased grin began to spread across my face as I recalled the fireside Chasind tales in my mind.

_There once was a mage called Mahiel._

"I am _not _a witch," she said too defensively. I turned to her then, perking an expectant brow. "I am a _Circle Mage_," she added, her voice forceful and biting on the end. I felt my eyes were laughing, now. What a treasure!

What a find. Of all places-

"Then what are you doing outside of your cage, little mageling?" I poised, crossing my arms importantly and turning back to her. "Or have they changed the rules while I was not looking? Tower birds are meant to stay in their tower." I laughed, cruel and happy. This seemed to rile her, but also close her up more. She was building her walls again, and I had little time to delve my prying witch fingers into the cracks before she shut me out completely. I saw a fiery twinkle in her pretty brown eyes.

"My history is _none of your business_," she cut in, her fists tightened at her sides. Such a fighter for such a small mage, wasn't she? I felt like putting a mocking hand to my chest.

"I am not one to be trifled with girl," I lowered my tone now, demanding that she show a bit more respect. She seemed to get some shred of absorption from this silent threat, and loosened her shoulders. Her eyes flicked away from mine.

"And what _history _is there to know?" I asked, curious. A flickering grin passed over my lips as I saw her visibly shaken by my choice of words.

Perhaps it was more than a "too-good-to-be-true" sort of truth, after all. I could feel my fingers curling around the answers with each passing second.

"How did a mage like yourself end up at the Circle?" I tried again, realizing she was not a creature to butt heads with for answers. No, the Witch of the Wilds would get her answers through compromise and alliance, not arguing and snapping at each other like blind dogs.

"I-I don't know," she spoke after a long, affording pause. I ticked a brow in surprise.

"Do not _know_ or do not wish to _tell_?" I asked, tilting my head to the side. She looked up at me, her fire eyes speaking unhappy sincerity. A thorn in her side.

"_I don't know_."

Well now we had danced back to ground one, now hadn't we? I felt a slightly agitated frown beginning to pull at my lips, but breathed in deep and decided to dig further. This could not be coincidence.

"Perhaps an apostate father?" I asked harmlessly, gesturing with my hand as I pretended to conjure random ideas out of my head. "Or maybe an apostate mother?"

She looked at me, unmoving. Unharmed by my words. A solid stone wall. I resisted the urge to twitch my lips in agitation.

"….Or perhaps both?" I tested, my voice a bit lighter and quieter. Many questions now presented themselves in my head, one of which seemed entirely fantastic and ridiculous and rather… clever.

"Did you not ever _wonder _why it was that you could not talk about your parents, little elfling, why every other child could?" I asked, now truly curious as to the root of this puzzle. How I did love a good puzzle - but this was a very important piece.

She looked troubled now, even frightened, as she took a small step away and flashed her eyes over the ground, searching it as eyes search a book for a missing phrase. I took a prowling step forward.

"That you could even _remember _the color of your mother's eyes? The sound of her angry screams when she sent you away? Or perhaps the solemn sounds of her sorrow as they _took you away_?" I hissed to her, taking closer steps forward as she continued to take more away, her fearful eyes now staring, penetrating and petrified, into mine.

"I-I don't know," she breathed, but it was nothing more than a terrified whisper.

"Have I hit a sore spot, elfling?" I cooed. "Or do you not wish for me to know?" I was a foot from her now, looking deep into the eyes of truth, and found them surprisingly blank. I gasped; quiet.

"Someone _else_ that does not wish for you to know.." I murmured, studying her wide eyes, suddenly realizing the great mystery of it. It had to be-

"What are you talking about?" She was gathering her legs again, standing back up to combat me with fierce eyes and tightened hands. I had found what I sought. Abated, I stepped away and smiled wide.

_And of Mahiel the Devourer, there was one but She, his Kaidasa, that bore him his only child. The beginnings of a great purge in the eyes of an elf-child._

"What if I were to tell you that I could give you your history back, girl?" I smiled, cracking my lips wide across my old face in a faint memory of long ago.

"What price shall I wager, in exchange?"


	20. The Great Storm

**Author's Note: **This marks the beginning of Part II to _Origins Written in Blood_, where we rejoin Isthalla as she recalls the last time she tried escaping the tower. I honestly didn't except to write another flashback, much less start the second half of this story with one, but I suppose we all get surprised by our writing from time to time. :) An interesting fact as well - when I was six years old I nearly drowned in a lake, though it wasn't storming, I just didn't know how to swim. I've always wanted to be able to describe that unimaginable feeling of what it feels like to have water rushing into your lungs since then, and finally found my excuse with this chapter lol. [/endlifestorytime]

There once was a time when I tried to escape.

I was about seven or eight at the time - I had only been confined for a few short winters, yet it felt like an eternity to me. Those first few years tend to wear on you in that manner. Knock-kneed and wide-eyed, I made the large leap to try my attempts at swimming Lake Calenhad.

* * *

"Commander?" the soft voice turned my head in an instant, and through the gloom I searched to find the ever-worried face of the senior enchanter Wynne. The look in her eyes told me there was trouble afoot on this stormy eve of summer's solace.

"What is it, Wynne?" I asked, my impatient eyes scanning over the dorm beds filled with sleeping lumps - or pretending to, anyway. I saw a pair of white eyes in the darkness attempt to sneak a look at me, then snap shut when I sent a warning frown in the mage's direction. She shifted and huddled back under her covers, content to go to sleep.

Wynne seemed nervous; cautious of a threat I was not yet aware of. She glanced about us as if waiting for someone to sneak out of the shadows, then leaned in quietly before placing an arm on my shoulder.

"One of the younglings is missing from their dorm," she told me gravely. I was on alert in an instant, knowing that all-too-familiar nag on my ears that another young apprentice was attempting to escape. They were too many and too few attentions to keep on the young ones, making it difficult to see a small child bobbing past in the shadows. How they produced my aggravation at times; they were worse than the older apprentices, and far more unstable.

With a sigh I sunk into my shoulders and, knowingly, put two fingers to the bridge of my nose before following Wynne down to the apprentice's dormitory.

"Did you check the kitchens?" I tried while holstering my sword higher on my waist. Damn thing was heavy. She nodded mutedly.

"As well as the library and recreation hall," she said in a frustrated, low murmur. I held out my torch higher so that we did not trip over the rugs trailing the stone hallways.

"I've had the other senior enchanters-" she paused as I allowed her to step ahead towards the staircase, "-thank you - had them check the green house and training rooms as well. There's no sign of her."

This fell me to a dead stop on the staircase as I wheeled around on Wynne.

"_..Her?_" I cut in, my blood suddenly coming to a rise as I considered the only _her _that I could remotely associate to such an escape feat as this. And for a _child_ no less.

_Maker don't let it be-_

"Isthalla," she answered pointedly, that knowing look flashing in her eyes as we exchanged worried expressions.

"When was the last time anyone saw her?" I said while rushing down the stairs, Wynne picking up pace behind me. She hiked up her robes slightly to trot alongside me, taking in a heavy sigh.

"Before supper; she was seen in the library practicing with one of the enchanters," Wynne recounted. My jaw ticked.

"That was _hours _ago," I hissed irritably while hurrying my pace. Wynne followed suit. "She could be miles away by now!"

"Greagoir I hardly believe a _child _could make it that far, much less go _outside_ in this weather," she chided.

A cold, sinking feeling suddenly dropped in my stomach as I realized what Wynne had failed to mention the first time - the storm. I had not noticed amidst my paperwork that outside the thick tower walls a storm was passing through. A great, black, violent storm that turned the lake into a monstrous graveyard for little mage lings.

Wynne gasped and fell to a horrifying halt as she realized the danger as well, and exchanged a look with me that sunk in my worst fears.

"_The lake_," she whispered to me, her eyes widened. "_Greagoir-_" she began, but I held up my hand.

"We must not assume the worst," I interrupted, though it was an empty statement. I could already hear the wind screeching and howling just outside the front doors. One of the nearby senior guards hesitantly took a step forward, eyeing us both before turning his attention to me.

"Commander?" he asked. I turned my wild eyes on him.

"Go find Weston," I ordered. "I want Henry and William by the front entrance in five minutes, and be quick about it!" He nodded quickly before turning and bolting off in the direction of the stairs. I turned to Wynne.

"Whatever you do, do _not _let Irving know about this," I said.

"But Greagoir-" she began, already shaking her head. I tightened my grip on her shoulders.

"Wynne, _please_-" I begged, searing my gaze into her own. "He _must not_ know that she's escaped." With that, I turned and nodded to the guards at the doors. They began to push them open, the rain and wind clawing their way through the cracks the instant a crack appeared. I held up my hand to my eyes and began to slowly approach the widening entrance, then felt an abrupt hand on my arm. Wynne was staring at me.

"Where are you going?" she asked incredulously. I pulled my arm away, my jaw ticking in impatience and worry.

"If anyone is going to find her, it's me. Tell Weston to take his men and scour the outer grounds, but I will go and search the shores. If there's a body to be found the wind should have pushed it back ashore by now."

"Greagoir-" she pulled again, her eyes begging me an important and pressing _For-Maker's-sake-don't-be-foolish _look before reluctantly releasing me when I gave no reply.

"No mage leaves the Circle, Wynne, not without my consent. And if she's in danger, I won't have her die in the middle of this storm if I can help it," I yelled back at her over the roar now deafening the entrance hall. She was already huddling away from the sharp needle-rain and water rushing into the foyer.

"GO!" I shouted back at her while stepping out into the swirling darkness of night, "Gather the senior enchanters and sweep the tower! I want her _found_!"

That was all the reason she needed to escape the pounding elements before she held up her arms and ran back down the hallway towards the staircase. I watched after her, briefly, before turning back into the screaming blackness of the storm and heard the doors shut behind me.

There was no point in shouting - the wind carried my voice away before it had a chance to properly stand. I opted to hold out my hand, aglow with a reserved dispel that gathered brief light around my feet. I squinted hard into the roaring darkness, seeing shadows briefly move where the choppy waters crashed and snarled against one another.

I walked along the edges of the whipping black waters, feeling them fly under my feet and try to claw me back into their depths. If I were to get swept under, even for an instant, the weight of my armor would sink me in a moment's breath under the waves. I picked my way carefully along the shore, the dread in my chest beginning to tighten the longer I walked and saw no sign of her body.

I was a quarter around the tower now, the wind and rain completely pierced through my armor. I could feel the freeze setting in, forcing painful, sharp chills up and down my spine. Surely she could not have survived this; not this.

Just as I was nearly halfway around the backside of the tower, I froze mid-step and felt my heart stop. There, just inches from the edge of the shore, a small figure stooped at the edge of the black lake. I sucked in a breath, holding it tight in fear I had seen falsely. She seemed to sense my presence, and stood to her feet with something in her hands. She looked directly at me then, her wide mage-eyes looking at me in a sad and fearful way. I was stunned and horrified to see her alive, much less standing in the rain in some delusional hysteria while attempting to skip rocks. I saw something pass over her face akin to confusion, then she turned away and broke into a run towards the lake.

"ISTHALLA NO!" I shouted after her, but it was too late. I heard the sickening plunge as she dove headlong into the foamy, screaming depths of the lake. I could not stop to think, to decide. Reason no longer mattered.

_I will not let you die!_

I was tearing off my armor before I could process it, chunking it to the side in a thrashing fit to get into the water before she drowned. She was floundering now, her head briefly bobbing above the surface before she was sucked back under by the torture some waves. Then came the screams. Bubbling, petrified child screams as she realized this was something she could not conquer, and the sensation of death sinking in.

_Maker, no.._

I hurled my gauntlets off before taking a wild sprint towards the water and threw myself in without a second's thought.

_Maker, no no No NO!_

The water slammed me in the chest with the force of a stone wall, taking my breath away and kicking my heart into overdrive. The wind was knocked out of me - I couldn't breathe, couldn't feel or think or move. The waves rushed over me in great roars, and I was under. I was thrown and smashed and ripped back and forth, barely surfacing long enough to gulp for air, then felt my body torn back under the waves.

_Save her._

The mechanical order screamed into my brain, above the instinct to save myself and flee for shore. She was dying, and would drown alone in these black waves if I did not save her. Fighting against the current and the weight of my armored boots, I kicked and forced my way to the surface against the current. I broke the surface with a great, coughing breath and floundered for a moment before finding my footing. I planted my feet apart on the bottom and held up my hands, forcing the light to bloom about me.

"ISTHALLA!" I shouted, panic and terror streaking my voice. "_ISTHALLA!_" I croaked out in a gargled shout. I heard a muffled shriek, drowned, then silence as I whipped around just in time to see a small hand disappear under the waves.

I dove back under the blackness, pushing against the weight of the water. I kicked and drove myself forward, feeling my entire body strain and snap against the movement. My lungs were on fire, my body stung by the powerful waves and wind and cold.

I reached out in the blackness, desperate, futile, and there when I thought I had lost her for sure, I felt my hand brush the hem of her robes. I struggled and kicked forward, grasping again until I could grip her arm.

Then I was breaking, coughing, and sputtering as I pulled with all my might to push her head above the surface.

_Maker let her live.._

The waves tore against me, pulling us both back under. I pulled with all my might, feeling the hot white burn in my arm from the overpowering pull of the water and weight too great for me to bear. I gritted my teeth and pushed for the surface, aching and desperate for air. I felt myself on the edge of panic, nearly between the breaking point of giving up and drowning and pushing past every paper-thin barrier that my body could endure. I could feel my muscles seizing up against the cold, dead weight. I forced them to kick, forced myself to continue fighting as I broke, briefly, to the surface and yanked her up with me.

She was slung over my shoulder now, a limp weight in my arms, as I kicked and clawed my way to shore. I reached for the shore's edge, but was dragged away by the force of the water pulling back out. I could feel my strength draining, and holstered her body more onto my shoulder as I reached out both hands, stretching as hard as I could and kicking against the current.

_Just one more step, Maker, please-_

I was within an inch's grasp, my final bits of energy stripped, when I felt the water jerk me away from the edge once more. And then the oblivion hit me.

_No, Andraste's mercy no!_

I reached, futile, as it began to pull me away. I shouted with all my might, feeling my legs slipping from underneath me and the waves pulling me under once more. The blackness began to consume my vision, and sound faded. Reason faded.

Then something solid and real I felt grasp my wrist, and I held back, holding onto the one steady anchor in the swirling blackness. I felt it pull me, and the weight leave as the world came to a dead, cold halt and my face slopped against the wet shores of Lake Calenhad.

"_Captain, are you okay?" _Weston shouted at me. I felt the waters rumble and heave up from my lungs all at once as I hunched over in the rain and coughed up the drowning waters. My body felt weak beyond measure, and the rain more painful than I remembered as I tried crawling more onto shore and stand. Weston pulled me to my feet and leaned forward so I could hear.

"Is she?" he shouted at me, and I looked at him, dumb founded, before realizing who he meant. My attention shifted instantly to the other limp body they'd dragged up on shore. She lay motionless, a shadowy blur on the grass. I stumbled forward and felt Weston catch me before I could fall. I shook my head hard, and turned to him.

"GET HER INSIDE! FIND WYNNE!"

I did not remember shouting, only heard my voice as if spoken from another man. I fell, and remembered a shout. Weakness and a desire to never feel anything again engulfed me as I slipped and fell deep into darkness where no thoughts or dreams could conspire.

_Maker protect her.._


	21. Drown Me

I stood at the edge of the black lake stretched out before me in a calm, glassy, dark blue. I could imagine the water rising; foaming into a torrent of teeth and claws to drag those unlucky souls down into the bodiless black of their watery grave. I shivered, slight, before taking a careful step forward.

The water was cold. Dead.

I felt the water rise to my calf, sliding its way upward until it reached the warmest part of my thigh. I shivered from the cold, inviting it; testing it. Such cold waters. So very tame.

As I stepped fully into the lake, I felt a chill sweep up my spine, that familiar reminder of _this-is-a-terrible-idea _whispering in my ear. I swallowed the lump in my throat and took another timid step, feeling the quiet waters engulf me around my waist. My heart pattered against my chest.

_One breath… two. Still breathing._

"Tis only water…"

The voice broke my comfortable silence. I whipped my head around to find the witch standing there, looking at me in a peculiar way with her head tilted to one side. I sucked in a sharp breath to gather myself again and frowned.

"Shall you gawk all day?" I bit back while covering my bare chest in a need for security. I could feel a slight blush already creeping up on my neck, but not from my lack of clothing. She scoffed.

"Do not fear, I do not intend to _ravish _you, if that is your concern," she said in a voice tinged with amusement. She sauntered over to the edge of the pool, calculating its depths, before quietly removing her boots and taking a seat at the edge with her feet dangled in the water. She splashed it back and forth, and I took a slow step away.

"Though I do wonder," she continued on, still insistent to invade my personal space, "how is it you fear _water, _of all things?" She tapped a curious finger to her lips and shook her head, unable to grasp the concept. I felt my heart beginning to thrash harder in my throat as I crossed my arms and hunkered down.

"The same reason we all have secrets-" I decided on while wading my way back towards shore, no longer comfortably standing in the nude by the edge of a lake at night. I climbed onto bank before snatching up my clothes and, using the nearest bush for privacy, quickly pulled my gown back over my head. Morrigan was back on her feet now, boots in her hands.

"'Tis one thing to talk, and another to avoid conversation intentionally," she began, following alongside me as we walked back towards camp. "I am not one for talking-"

"Because clearly it shows," I cut in rather fiercely. She paused, taken aback by my interruption, then let a slight smile curl onto her lips.

"-But since we've been on this _journey _of sorts," she stepped back into place in the conversation, "I cannot help but notice your begging curiosity with water."

"I suppose I have my reasons.." I murmured while traipsing back over to our encampment on the outside of the clearing. I saw the curious heads of our fellow campmates pop up from behind various tents and obstructions, then quietly lower back down when I paid them no mind.

"Morrigan," I said, my tone decisively changing the subject, "why is it you stay here?" I shot a calculating, troubled look in her direction. I had told her many times before she was not obligated to stay - clearly she had originally had no strong intentions to do so, yet after so many weeks she was still by my side, still sharing a camp with me. Alistair asked once before why I chose not to join the others.

I told him it was a witch thing.

I saw her pause in between stuffing some of her garments into a satchel and stare long and hard at the ground. It was an abrasive but open look, one which quickly flashed to guarded when she turned back to look at me.

I knew that look all too well.

"_I have my reasons_," she quoted in an almost mocking tone. She seemed irritated despite the innocence of the question. I had no intention of riling her. I knew all too well what ends that road met by the angry wave of a glowing wand and wrathful female. Alistair had yet to fully grasp that concept.

Despite my better judgment, I snorted. I had known Morrigan long enough to realize I could get away with such small discrepancies, for we were two animals of a like kind. She knew.

"What? Do you not believe I can have my own reasons?" she stood up, bristling, her hands on her hips. I raised a brow in her direction, moving over to my side of our camp to find my books.

"No," I said, "I just did not expect you to mindlessly quote me." I mirrored her position and crossed my arms, shooting her an expectant _did-you-think-that-would-work _look before curling my lips into a smile.

Morrigan did not seem amused.

"Well, do you _want _me to leave?"

Not the conversation I meant to start. I bristled.

"I never said that."

"No, but you certainly make your thoughts loud and clear by continuing to beg the question every night! I am assuming you wish for me to leave-" She began to pack her things more furiously, now alarming me to the realization she was not just moving things, but _packing _them as if she intended to leave. I laughed.

"If I wanted you to leave I would have told you to," I shrugged, stepping over the place where she was busy snatching up her potion bottles. I heard them clatter and fall back on the ground.

"I am not a mongrel _dog _to be given commands!" she yelped. I turned, slowly, to find her back on her feet now. She was angry, a comforting and wounding angry that I remembered very well.

I tensed my brow and studied her slowly, a finger tapped against my lip.

"I'm sorry," I finally said, dropping my arms back at my side with a confused look still plastered on my face. Why did I get the impression I was standing there, looking at myself. I shoved the thought away for another time.

Morrigan slowly fell back to her seat and began to gather up her belongings, taking a deep, drawling sigh.

"'Tis all right. I understand the principle-" she said. I turned back to her.

"Hm?" She looked up at me, a faint but understanding glint in her eyes.

"You choose not to feel responsible for holding others against their will," she shrugged. "An understandable view given your history with captivity."

"Tell me about it," I sighed with relief while taking a flopping seat beside her on top of her rolled-up cot. She chuckled.

"You know, I never expected to like you," she admitted after a thoughtful pause. I huddled over on my knees and lifted a stick to poke at the fire. I snorted.

"I wouldn't expect you to - cold-hearted _bitch _isn't exactly a comforting title.." I said, though felt my words fall empty as the phrase echoed in my mind.

_I don't want to be that person…_

"I don't choose it-" I corrected, my face screwing up as I continued to stare long and hard into the fire. Morrigan shifted beside me.

"I just.." I paused. "I am unfortunately titled as such," I finished pointlessly with a shrug. A deepening frown was pulling on my mouth as I considered the phrase, rolled it over in my mind and silent tongue, and decided I never liked it.

"Not to pry-" Morrigan spoke up after the silence became too much. I turned tired eyes to glance at her; she looked back, then quickly turned her eyes to the fire. She had a habit of not looking someone in the eyes if they weren't her enemies or considered prey. I had since excluded myself from either category when she offered to let me take up dorm in her tent. Intelligent company was a rare offer to the Witch of the Wilds.

"I have watched the look on your face whenever someone throws an insult in your direction, yet-" she paused shaking her head as if she was mistaken, then looked me directly in the eyes, "when the option of returning to your home was brought up, you looked like a frightened child."

"That is not my home," I butted in quicker than necessary. Stone-cold feelings of resentment immediately built up in my chest, squeezing tight and shortening my breath. I looked away, hunkering down into my arms and wanting the feeling to go away. Morrigan pulled away slightly before considering her words, then turned back to the fire.

"I see," she murmured.

Silence.

The crackling of the fire stretched miles between our words, filling the air with useless noise and weight. I stared long and hard into the depths of orange glow, wishing it would engulf the tower. Take them all down, one by one.

_I want you to feel my anger._

_..Even you._

I shut my eyes and tried to ignore the stab to my chest, but it was to late.

_Red. So much red._

_Childish._

_You are such a child, Cullen._

"What do you plan to tell the others?" Morrigan broke through my thoughts before they could spiral into madness. I tensed in my seat before gripping the insides of my arms as tight as I could.

"I don't know," I admitted after a pause. I didn't have the answers. I didn't know what to do, and Maker I sure as hell couldn't decide in time before someone dragged me kicking and screaming back into the depths I'd sworn never to step foot on again. Greagoir hated me; I half-expected to find him waiting on the tower doorstep with a hatchet in his hand the moment I came into sights.

"They will ask questions soon enough," Morrigan continued, nagging my conscious. "When it comes time to make a decision and you have to explain why you refuse to help-" she stopped, realizing I was shrinking into my arms the more she talked. I squeezed my eyes shut tighter and sighed, knowing every word she spoke all too well.

_I don't know what to do, I just don't…_

"I _can't _go back there," I mumbled into my arms. A pause.

"_Will _not or _cannot? _Those are surely two very different concepts," she prodded. "We cannot abstain the mission simply because you do not _feel like it_." She was chiding me now, like a mother chiding a misbehaved child. I hated it.

"_I just can't._" I ground out through clenched teeth.

"I need a better reason than that, Isthalla," she scoffed. "Are you to spout that same, childish nonsense to the others tomorrow when they begin towards Lake Calenhad? I doubt Alistair will even _allow_ that excuse!"

"_FINE!_" I snapped, abruptly jerking my body out from the cocoon of my arms and turning on her. She recoiled slightly in surprise before narrowing her eyes.

"_Fine_," I corrected myself, tone lowering. "If I told you _why_, would it make a difference?" I snapped.

"It depends on the _what _of this _why _of your's, Isthalla."

"Fine," I sighed. "Then I'll need something to drink."

She looked surprised. I turned weary, half-lidded eyes to her face.

"If I am to be murdered tomorrow, I'd at least like to be happily drunk when it happens," I muttered with a distasteful frown on my lips.

Morrigan raised her expression in half-surprise before grinning and fishing out a large bottle of rum from her pack. She waved it in front of my face and tilted her head.

"Chatter away, friend," she said.


	22. Remembrance

"Be careful," I warned, casting a worried look in her direction. She caught my eyes over her shoulder, smiling back at me with mischief shining in her eyes and the red of her lips barely visible.

"Of course," she laughed, though I know she didn't mean it. I took the little laugh that tinkered like bells over her shoulder and hid it away in a special box for later. What a beautiful sound.

I watched each delicate, bare foot trace a line across the stone wall, inching and dancing forward as if grace itself had nothing on her prowess. She did a light twirl, instinctively jerking me into motion in the case she fell - then falling back awkwardly on one heel when she didn't - and hopped ahead, arms held out for balance.

"Why do you insist on _being_ here?" I questioned, now feeling the tense sensation beginning to creep up on my skin. I wasn't quite sure if this was against protocol or not, but it certainly didn't feel right. Why weren't there any laws regarding the sanctuary garden, anyway?

"Why do you _insist _on asking every week?" she posed back. I opened my mouth to retort, then closed it when I had no argument. There _was _no reason other than paranoia - that or fear Greagoir would discover us and I would never get to bring her to the garden again. I would never get to see her dance across the stone wall in the sunlight.

I didn't want that.

"It's just-" I tried, then fell still when she perked a brow at me over her shoulder.

"Just what, templar?" she asked. I flinched at the name; I had hoped by now she was past that, though it seemed more like a fleeting pet name rather than insult now, at least. She grinned. "I have _you _to accompany me, no? We're fine."

She hopped across a deep, crumbled groove in the stone wall and began to scour the north side. I tilted my head slightly, watching her in mild fascination. A grin betrayed my lips.

"Greagoir can kiss my arse if he wants to ban me from the garden as well," she added as an afterthought, her lips pulling into a determined frown. I chuckled.

"Care to tell that to his face?" I tested. She shot me that _look_ and I instantly crumpled under it, the smile lessening on my features. This seemed to satiate her.

Silence followed. She continued to travel the length of the wall in silence, arms spread out like wings and feet still delicately tapering over the grooves of flawed stone like wind snaking over the hills. She was a beautifully fluid creature; more so than most I had seen. Her anger was graceful - her joy, sublime. She rested between contemplative and lost as she made her way to the third wall on my right, now facing me as she stepped closer.

I fully turned to face her as she came within a few feet, sucking in my breath in hopes she would not see the faltering foolishness on my face. How is it I could hold a full conversation with her ten feet away, yet not a foot away?

_She is too close.._

As she reached the very edge of the crumbling wall, I held out my hands in a routine gesture to help her down, though my heart thrashed in my chest. I had to _touch _her to help her down. Even through the armor I could feel my hands burning.

But instead of sliding into my hands she took one, bemused look at my outstretched hands, grinned slightly, then plopped herself right down on the edge of the wall with one leg dangling on either side.

"Cullen," she said, and instantly my eyes leveled to hers - eager, desperate to connect in that moment of equal ground. She looked at me only for an instant before flicking her amber eyes away, too evasive for me to catch. Her control danced away before I could grasp it.

"Yes, Isthalla?" I forced the phrase out of my mouth, praying to the Maker for steadfast language. The stutter did not fall, and I was relieved to take in a quiet breath. She paused to soak in the sound of her own name before swinging her legs back and forth.

"Do you ever dream?"

I fell still, unsure if I had heard her correctly. My brow screwed up as I drew my eyes back to her face - they had been watching my shuffling boots on the floor - and frowned.

"O-Of course," I shrugged (damn my stuttering). "Everyone does-" I added, then stopped myself when she shot me a daring, fierce scowl.

"I-I mean," I corrected, rubbing one hand to the back of my neck and returning my eyes to the floor in a fit of embarrassment. "Obviously for magi - I mean, I imagine it's _different_," I searched for words, and found myself sounding more foolish by the second. Isthalla seemed to accept my ignorance and moved on, shrugging her shoulders.

"The only difference between us is that I am still aware in the Fade, whereas you are not," she corrected quietly, her voice and eyes far-off in a private world I was not allowed to see.

"What's it like?" I dared to ask, my voice falling quiet in fear I would shatter the paper-thin image she was lost within. I dare not disturb her; not when she looked that way. Her eyes cast across the sunlit garden, seeing things unimaginable. She looked wistful; beautiful.

"I can smell grass," she said. "I know the color of a Tevinter sunset, the sensation of snow in Kirkwall.." Her eyes grew pained.

"..I know what the ocean looks like," she murmured.

And then it hit me, as if the stone walls surrounding the small sliver of a garden centering in the sanctuary had fallen upon me.

_You have never seen them.. any of them._

Though my late youth was spent confined in a cell for over a decade, I knew the sensation of grass; of dirt. I knew what it meant to run barefoot over cobble-stoned streets, and to run through the grassy plains outside Denerim. To splash in the shallow ends of a river while the Revered Mother yelled at me to come back inside. I knew the smells of a marketplace; of salty, fresh fish and mountain-scented furs and exotic incense burning under a sun-hot tent. I remembered these things and kept them hidden in my memory to muse over in my cell; to remember because I had those memories to hold, to keep my sanity by.

She had none of these.

No memories.

Nothing to grasp.

The protectively injured look on her face made sudden, painful sense to me and I felt ashamed to even look at it. I wanted to cure it, to make it go away. Maker, I wanted to bring her outside. To touch the grass, smell the salt-driven wind of the ocean, or experience the golden heat of a summer day. Maker knows these were the things I craved the most while locked away inside black stone walls for thirteen years.

She had been locked away her entire life.

I could never make up for such atrocities, but I could at least grant her the joys within my power. The visits to the few and rare tower windows that Greagoir still allowed to be open - as long as a templar supervised. The visits to the stone garden in the sanctuary. The green house.

All these things meant everything to her, and many magi.

"In my dreams, I have walked upon the sea.." she cut through my thoughts, whispering them out in a quiet incantation of lost memory. A fabrication of things that could be, and should have been. The fleeting desires of a caged bird.

I reached out my hands again, this time in a turn for empathy. She looked at them, lost and wistful, before slowly reaching out her own hands to place upon my shoulders. She slid into my arms, warm and fragile, and clung to me. I nearly lost my breath as I tried to fill my lungs, surprised by the sudden change of motion, but unable to deny it. Her small hands wrapped around my neck in a desperate grasping for comfort, and I - in turn of a short, startled breath - pulled her down from the stone wall and held her in my arms.

"I'm sorry, Isthalla," I whispered, my face pressing against her hair. "I will show you the sea one day; I promise."

_Maker forgive me._

* * *

"Ser Cullen?"

My eyes flashed open in an instant - when did I start daydreaming in the middle of duty, anyway? They traveled the length of the room in a quick, repetitive manner, assuring me that we were not in any immediate danger, before turning to the persistent and small voice at my side. Her big, green eyes flashed up at me in a worrisome, childlike manner. I smiled.

"Yes, what is it Nera?"

I softened at the young girl's expression - I honestly didn't think there was anything good left in this world; I didn't believe Greagoir was still capable of of humanity, either. Yet here we were, Nera a recently-orphaned elfling from the forest. One of the patrol groups found her half-starved in the outlining woods, and took her in despite her magical abilities. Where I had expected a quick and merciless death, I found her spared and a newly-initiated apprentice into the tower.

She seemed more nervous than usual - honestly I'd never seen a creature so jumpy in my life - and chewed on her bottom lip before darting her eyes over her shoulder, then back to me.

"Are y-you… okay?" she forced the words out in a soft tremble, immediately placing her gaze elsewhere when I tried to look down at her. My brow crumpled.

"Wh-Well, yes, Nera," I said. "Of course I am, why wouldn't I be?" I almost wanted to laugh - she was always so busy fussing over the others, especially the younger apprentices. She had a kind heart; too kind at times.

"It's just-" she paused, turning her sad eyes to the floor again. "You've been staring awfully hard at that wall for some time now, a-and I thought-" she broke off her sentence, unsure of where she was going with it. Her hands were crumpled against her chest in doubt as she bit her lip again out of habit and shook her head.

"I-I'm sorry, I don't mean to bother you," she murmured fruitlessly before turning to walk off. My hand reached out in an instant and lightly grabbed her shoulder.

"Nera," I asked, and felt her jolt under my touch. I removed my hand in an instant, remembering how easily startled she was, before retracting it back to my side and lowering my voice.

"_Nera_," I said a bit kinder, and in an instant her big eyes were turned to me again - hopeful. "It is no trouble, _I promise_," I smiled, leaning over a bit so she wouldn't feel so intimidated. "I was just lost in a thought, I suppose."

"Really, what about?" she piped up, then curled into her arms when she heard her own voice bounce off the surrounding walls. "I-I mean, you don't have to, if you want," she added, quieter. I chuckled.

"No, it's quite all right," I nodded, gesturing for her to take a seat on the table next to me. She hopped up without a second's thought, swinging her legs back and forth with a happy child's smile on her face. I envied it - briefly.

"To be more specific I was thinking about _someone_, actually-" I explained, leaning back against the table and crossing my arms. She shrank away from me a bit, then slowly uncurled when she did not feel a threat from my presence. I could relate well to that feeling.

"Really, who?" she asked, her wide eyes turned to me. I looked away, my eyes roving lazily over the hundreds of books lining the shelves of the library.

_She loved being here.._

"A very good friend of mine.." I said after a moment, though the words came out slowly. My brow furrowed at the sound - a foreign language that I had refrained from speaking for many months. Though the ache in my heart did not leave with the sound, it felt more like a fond memory.. if it was only the fond ones that I recalled.

"Oh," Nera spoke up, sounding crestfallen. "Was it.. a _girl_?" I raised a brow in surprise she could guess so easily - or perhaps it was my mistake for giving away my thoughts so easily through expression - and brushed it away without a second's more thought.

"Yes, a lovely and very _stubborn _lady," I chuckled. "Her name was Isthalla." Poison on my tongue; sweet, intoxicating poison that I wanted more of. A poison long-gone. Perhaps vanished from the face of the earth. My smile waned.

_Where are you now?_

"Did you like her?" Nera piped up. I looked at her then, her wide elf-eyes staring at me in confusion and wonder. It would be a few years before she understood that side of feelings, but hopefully not too soon. With feelings comes the loss of innocence, and the inevitable obsession that will consume the purest heart. I did not wish something like that upon something so sweet and innocent as Nera.

_A song I know too well, Isthalla.._

"Yes," I answered honestly, shifting uncomfortably in my armor. "Very much." I didn't feel this was an appropriate topic to continue treading upon, so I attempted to steer her mind away from that realm of bad memories.

"In fact, she was an elf, just like you," I smiled, tilting my head towards the surprised little mageling. She blinked.

"_Really?_" she asked. She seemed entranced by this knowledge, suddenly wanting to know everything and anything I could talk about regarding this mystery woman to her child's mind. So I told her, to the best of my knowledge, and making sure to keep the darker themes out of the story, managed to weave something of a fairy tale out of the story of Isthalla the Grey Warden - woman, elf, and mage. Leading Ferelden out of the blight.

It was a greatly fantastic story, though painted in a way children could admire. I was ashamed at my telling of the tale, each flash of dark memory staining my mind as I skipped over the parts no child should know. Gaps were filled with pointless romanticism I secretly hated myself for, yet wished could be true. She was painted as an unscathed glass sculpture in my story. A beautiful and majestic bird taken flight to the sky, giving hope to all magi for their freedom.

If only I could believe it, as well.

"Ser Cullen..?" her small voice broke me from my trance of thought. I turned and looked at her, eyes half-lidded and thoughtful, before offering a blank smile. She seemed reluctant to speak then, finally biting her lip in a fit of nervousness, fussed with her hands before looking up into my eyes.

"If it makes you so sad, then why think about her?"

The impact of her words hit me with a bitter irony I did not expect. Why _did_ I think about her? And more so…

"Why do you think she makes me sad?" I laughed, stunned by a child's attentiveness to words unspoken. Was I so easy to read?

She seemed troubled by this accusation, and fiddled more with her hands before looking away. She seemed upset with herself.

"I-It's just…" she paused, her nose twitching to the side. "W-When you talk about her… you- the _way _you look," her voice fell as she shook her head and looked back up at me, "you look so sad.."

"Oh.." I murmured, the empty smile falling from my face in an instant.

"I-I'm sorry," Nera shook her head, doubtful of her words. "I-I didn't mean to- I just.." she bit her lip, and for a second I was horrified to imagine tears forming in her eyes. I must have imagined it.

"I just don't want you to be so sad all the time.." she finished with a miserable sigh.

_Oh…_

"Nera," I began, tripping over my own logic at the possibility of trying to explain such things to a _child_, but then again she wasn't really a child, was she? To me, perhaps yes… but she was but a few years shy of my age before my conviction to Aeonar. Perhaps she understood more than I realized.

"It's important to think about the ones you… care for," I started, already feeling myself stumbling over every word I intended to be so poignant. It always came out as a jumbled mess of confusion - just never what I wanted to say.

"What I mean to say is-" I tried correcting myself, sighing in frustration while pulling two fingers to the bridge of my nose. "Though it may hurt to think about it, remembering those most important to us can help us forget that they aren't with us… now. Our memories are all we have of the people we've lost. I-It's important to keep them."

"But _why _if it hurts you so much to remember?" she cut in. Now I fell silent, absorbed and silenced by the conviction in her voice. Maker's breath, were those _tears _in her eyes?

"Ser Cullen!"

I jumped at the sound of a slamming door and a third party cutting into our conversation, but turned with an instinctive attentiveness to find Ser Weston running across the foyer. I jumped to attention and met him halfway.

"Yes, what is it?" I turned back to find Nera sulkily standing to her feet and preparing to slink away.

"There are _abominations _in the tower, ser," Weston whispered.

_Maker's Blood, no…_

Panic. Fear. Sickness sinking in my bones. My heart skipped a beat.

"A-Are you-" I tried to whisper back, but my voice withered before I could force the words out. Weston shot me a grave, stone-cold look that told me something was very, very, _dreadfully_ wrong. My blood ran cold.

"Greagoir plans to bar the front entrance.. Cullen, what do we do?" he mumbled. I could hear the terror in his voice - the fear of being trapped on the third floor when all hell broke loose and every tower mage, apprentice, and templar was torn limb from limb by demons.

"_Nera!_" my hand shot out in an instinctive order for her to remain where she was. She froze in an instant, her wide, terrified eyes locking on me in bristling fear she had done something wrong. I turned fearful eyes in her direction, feeling my ragged breath tremble from between my lips.

"You must come with me," I ordered.


	23. Allegiance

I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. Every nerve in my body was tensed and apprehending a great evil I could already feel crawling its way through the walls. I took a hesitant step backward, my hand trained steadily on the hilt of my sword, while my other fanned out in a protective swoop over Nera, who was now cowering closer to the back wall. My eyes stayed locked on the door at the other end of the foyer where strange noises began to whisper.

A loud, piercing scream in the distance.

Weston jumped and sucked in a breath, stepping back beside me. The library was at a dead silence - a too quiet that put my entire body and mind on edge. My fingers were trembling; palms already sweating. Maker, my heart was ready to burst from my chest.

"C-Cullen.." Nera whispered from behind me, now hovering under the space of my arm with her small hands clutching my cape. I wrapped my arm around her head and pulled her close, eyes never leaving the door. I could feel Weston tensing beside me, his breath shallowing to a ragged tremble.

"_We must do something!_" he hissed at me under his breath. I couldn't speak; my entire breath relied entirely on what would happen next, what the darkness lurking behind that door brought forth. It began shake - slowly, quietly - then build to a frightening rumble. I could hear the hissing and growling and scratching just under the cracks of the frame. Nera whimpered and clung closer to me.

A great crack sounded against the door, and we all jumped. Nera squeaked and began to whimper again.

I could sense the presence, but I felt I could not locate _where _exactly. My grip clutched tightly around my belt, eyes latching hungrily onto the door, watching as smoke and black liquid began to seep under the frame. I took a step back, further towards the south entrance, with Nera pressed closely against the crook of my left arm. She was trembling.

"Do not leave from this spot, Nera," I ordered, still not looking down. She said nothing. I, assuming she nodded, released her from my grip and stepped forward while gesturing to Weston to take over. He stepped into the space I had occupied, his body now hovering protectively beside her.

I stepped carefully up to the shuddering door, drawing my sword out of the hilt and brandishing it tightly in both, curled fists. As I stepped within a foot of the monstrous thing, I could audibly hear the creatures lurking just behind the surface. Unnatural, sickening noises burbled from behind. I pulled my lips into a detested snarl, raising my sword above my head. I used my right hand to reach for the handle, fingertips hovering gingerly over the surface in fear. I was trembling.

_Maker give me strength-_

"_CULLEN! Look out!" _

The warning was drowned out by a piercing, shrill screech as I felt myself thrown back against the bookcase and pinned there. The door exploded into pieces, snapping off from its hinges and crashing just below my feet on the floor. I couldn't breathe - I couldn't move. I coughed and tried to bring back into focus the figure in the doorway. A woman I knew from the tower - Adessa - stood in the doorway with both hands raised, covered in blood.

A terrified scream of a child echoed behind me, but I could not respond. Adessa's sightless eyes surrounded me, and captivated me. I was powerless to do anything under her command, though in the backs of my mind I knew I was screaming to be released from her blood magic.

"Release him!"

Weston charged in front of her, breaking the visual contact and concentration. I felt a great weight lifted off my chest as I dropped down from the bookcase and slammed against the floor. I only took a moment to cough and take my breath back in before scrambling to my feet, sword at the ready.

"Adessa _stop this!_" I yelled while dodging to the side from a spell just nicking my robes. "You are _not yourself_!" I planted my feet firmly on the floor behind her, with Weston stalking around the front. She stood between us, feet hovering slightly off the ground with both hands still raised, her blood suspended between them. She laughed - an unearthly, horrifying sound - and turned her sightless, sickened gaze on Weston.

"_All shall know his power soon enough!" _she spoke with the voice another much darker and more sinister than her own. I could hear the demon hiding just beyond the veil, and gripped my sword in my hand.

"_Release her_, demon, or this fight shall be your last!" I ordered, my sword at the ready. Another suspended laugh that unnerved me to the core, and she slowly turned to face me. Her eyes pierced me through once more, but I knew better this time. My guard was up, a grit determination written on my face.

"_You shall know suffering most of all_," she laughed, then abruptly turned and spread her hands wide at the other side of the foyer. My eyes immediately found Nera, who was frozen in terror, curled up in the corner on the opposite side of the room.

"Nera, _no!_" I yelled, but it was too late. I heard the fateful scream as she was lifted off the ground, the blood surrounding her in a circling haze. I stumbled forward, my heart thrashing out of my chest, head screaming to stop her before it was too late.

Then the sickening, crunching _rip _of bones and flesh broke my desperation mid-run. The air, the very life left my chest as I watched Nera tear in half with one, petrified, agonizing scream, then silence as her torn corpse was dropped to the floor with a sickening, wet slap.

I stumbled and crashed to my knees, the tears springing to my eyes in horror. I choked on my sob, unable to make myself stand. I tried to crawl forward, and stumbled again.

_Maker why, WHY! WHY!_

"_NERA!_" I cried, feeling the words stutter in my throat in another wave of sobs. I felt myself dragged from the ground, now eye-level with the south wing door as I stumbled around in a half-choke and found Weston's wide eyes locking with my own.

"Stand up; _get yourself together!_ I _need you_, Cullen!" he ordered, though the words themselves sounded hazy and far-off. My body responded to the order, sword swinging back into motion as I propelled myself forward at the horde of demons flooding in through the north entrance. My mind was broken and shut - my body a puppet for repelling the forces against us.

Over and over they came - in waves of creatures I had never witnessed and in the form of comrades and friends that I knew. A third wave, finally conquered, as Weston sliced his blade through the heart of a bewitched templar - a friend of ours, Gerard - and let his body drop with a wet thud onto the ground. I could see the pain written on Weston's face as he drew his blade back and turned to me, and then suddenly my mind snapped back into place.

"We cannot stay here," I said, my eyes only just recognizing the mounds of bodies littering the floor and staining the carpets with blood.

_I cannot stay here.._

The smell and sight was unbearable. I would not force us for one more moment to stay in that wretched place to die under the hands of those we trusted and fought alongside. We had to stop - we had to find Greagoir and purge the source before any more innocent lives were slaughtered.

"I will not let them die in vain," I said while gritting my teeth and breaking into a run through the south entrance. Weston broke mid-step behind me and fell to a halt with one hand nervously touching his belt.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

I turned to find him stepping back towards the north entrance and jutting one thumb. "The stairs are that way, mate," he nodded. I gritted my jaw together and frowned at him, redrawing my sword from the hilt once more.

"I know," I answered honestly with a nod, "but there could be more still trapped on the third floor. We must save them." I was determined to save any innocent life still in the tower; I would be damned if I let Greagoir offer another child up as bait to these.. creatures.

"I will not leave them behind." This was not a suggestion, but an order. I was not giving Weston the option to turn and run; we would fight our way through a dozen more hordes of demons if it meant saving anyone else. I stared him down long and hard, waiting to see the decision flicker in his eyes. After a hesitant pause, he knitted his brow together and stepped forward, though petrified.

"I'm with you Cullen - until the end," he nodded. I nodded back briefly, placing my hand on his shoulder and squeezing it.

"Thank you, my friend," I said, "I could not have done this otherwise without you."

He smiled, weakly, and with that - we both glanced once more back to the north entrance before turning and making our way to the third floor staircase, swords brandished and hearts stone-set.


	24. Regret

"The end" was a brief, flickering laugh in the eyes of the Fade. Weston charged ahead, blindly, into the group of abominations - some resembling faces I could painfully remember of less-caring days - with his sword held high.

I begged him not to go.

_Foolish boy._

She raised him high above her head with a piteous laugh. I could see the tears in his eyes, the horror on his face to know all of our brethren had fallen such ill and easy prey to these _beasts._ His anger was mocked by their souless laughs, and the empty smiles on their twisted faces. He wanted to pain of their memory gone, the mockery of puppeted corpses out of his eyes. I could not stand to look at them.

I could not move.

This, _this_ is what it had come to. This is what _they_ had turned to, despite the effort. Despite the warning. All of them. Fallen. Dead.

_Weak._

_How __**could**__ you?_

I was so overpowered by my anger, I could not think. The will to remain to my spot disappeared. I wanted _nothing_ but to see their corpses on the ground, and to remain there. They deserved a rightful, violent death for what they had done.

_How could you do this?_

My blade severed through the hearts of my brothers, of my sisters, and of my charges. The ones I swore to protect. There was no longer a line between the innocent and the corrupt - _they were gone._ Their soulless, laughing eyes spoke enough for my heart to endure.

_They must all die._

They fell at my feet effortlessly; sickeningly. I watched the bodies pile before my eyes, and still I charged on until all I saw left in my red vision stood Weston, the templar. My friend and enemy, now a threat in my eyes.

"C-Cullen, it's me! Weston!" he choked out in a fearful voice, but I saw the eyes. I saw the soulless, trapped eyes of a corpse mocking me. I had seen the demon twist him into the air and kill him. Weston was no more; he was but a mockery to my former friend and brother.

"You will die as the rest, abomination," I snarled before raising my sword and plunging it into his heart. He seized and gripped the bloody sword with both palms. I saw the blood spill over his palms as the blade cut through his soft flesh. He wretched, looking up at me with hollow, sorrow-filled eyes, then fell to his knees and slid off my sword edge with a sickening noise. His body hit the floor, dead. My nose wrinkled as I looked down at my hands, stained with the blood of those I had looked after.

"I am sorry, Weston," I murmured.

With that, I fell to the ground and wept.


	25. Templar's Weakness

"_Bravo_," a voice interrupted to my right. Something about it made my entire body ache with terrifying memory. I sat frozen to my spot on the floor, head in hands, shaking.

"_Bravo, my templar_," she purred, echoing a cold and empty laugh from the darkness. I could not see. I _dare_ not see.

A single, stone-cold clap , followed by another. My eyes stared, blank and horrified, through the slits of my trembling fingers. Shadows betrayed across the blood-stained carpet and stone walls, but through it cut the bare, white trace of skin that sent a cold shiver down my spine.

"My sweet, sweet _templar_," she whispered, stepping out of the shadows. She was wearing the same, snow-white gown I remember from the night before she left. The milk-white of her skin was barely indistinguishable against the fabric that slipped so lightly over her thigh. Light as a feather, it trailed behind her with a weightless beauty.

My disbelieving eyes traveled the length of her legs, up to her breasts displayed so ample against the pale light. I could feel my body shaking as my hands fell uselessly at my sides, unable to look away. Unable to move.

"Up here, _templar_," she grinned. My dumb gaze obeyed out of instinct, traveling further until I reached the pristine, knowing smile perched on her red lips.

"Such a good boy," she chuckled, taking another step forward and falling to one knee. Not a scratch on her beautiful skin. Nothing out of place, not even a hair. Her hair was down, tumbling over her shoulder in a loose braid the color of ink. Small, wisping threads escaped and fell in her eyes.

"My templar," she whispered again, her cold hand pressing against my cheek. So very cold.

I tensed.

"I-Isthalla," I heard myself murmur, though I could not connect the words to my thoughts. I felt distant of myself, lost in a dream that did not belong. I creased my brow, hearing the words echo again.

"_Isthalla.._"

She hushed me, pressing one cold finger to my lips. I could feel her breath whispering over my mouth, yet could not feel the heat. I felt like I should be troubled, but it seemed like too much effort. I could feel my grasp slipping, my mind falling.

_I have longed for your touch.._

"_Shhh_…" she urged me. Was I falling? I couldn't be sure. Nothing seemed important anymore, nothing but her voice. Her hands. Her _touch_. "_Rest now_, templar," she whispered into my ear, resting her body next to mine. I let my heavy lids close, embracing the cold warmth that she offered. I could feel myself slipping away, and I did not want to fight it anymore. The whispers began to disappear.

_Wait.._

_Wait….._

_Cullen!_

My heart disrupted in sudden, screeching panic as I heard the phrase repeat, this time louder. More urgent; desperate. Terrified.

"_Cullen!" _I heard her scream in my mind. It was a terrified, heart-breaking sound. One that made my entire chest clench up in agony. I panicked and jumped in my shock, and felt the _hands_ on me, and the hissing murmurs of protest.

_Hold him…_

_Kill him…_

_Taken him._

I could hear their whispering, hissing voices now. I could see the eyes surrounding me, the cold hands pushing me further into the ground. Her voice reappeared again, begging me to get up. She was weeping, _Oh Maker_ the very sound tore my heart in two. She screamed for them to stop hurting me, to get away.

_Isthalla, no-_

I began to struggle against them, feeling every hair on my body stand on end. This wasn't _right_, Maker this was never _right!_ She was gone, _dead_ even, but no longer _here!_ Even _she_ knew that.

I felt a weight like none other on my chest. An invisible thickness filled and constricted my lungs. I grasped for air, shaking and trembling, as I reached for nothing and felt myself still being sucked into oblivion. I was drowning.

I was dying.

Then I saw her, beautiful and untouched memory in my fading vision. She looked at me in confusion, her amber eyes turning away in regret. I reached out for her, screaming out her name and finding no sound producing from my throat. I reached again, this time with both hands. I began to tear and jerk away from the pressure pulling me back.

My grasping became frantic, until I was kicking the faceless creatures away, desperately struggling to find my release. With a final, shattering roar of determination, I kicked the last one away and saw the darkness recede, as did the vision of her before me. She disappeared into gray smoke as I felt the world haze back around me, and my eyes found the blurry shape of the blood-stained floor.

Pain swept over my stiff body. I groaned as I tried to sit up, but found my arms too weak for the struggle. I laid there, staring empty and blank at the blood-splattered floor and trying to collect my thoughts.

_Weston.._

A painful stab of memory echoed in my mind. I squeezed my eyes shut with sudden, overwhelming grief of the recollection as I witnessed myself kill my comrade. Without mercy. Without regret. A quiet, stuttering sob erupted from my chest.

"So you've awoken," a voice interrupted me. I looked up from my blood-stained hand to see him standing there, a smug and unamused sneer on his face. My blood boiled as I recalled the man, finding the source of my anger and guilt placed upon his shoulders.

"U-Uldred," I choked out in a murderous whisper, attempting to crawl to my feet and murder the lying bastard where he stood. All of the magi, all the templars and innocents he had slaughtered- _Nera_.

Their blood stained his hands.

"_B-BASTARD!_" I snarled through a sob, falling back on the floor in a pile of frustrated, pained weeping. "How _could you?_ You _KILLED_ them!"

"That's rather harsh," he scoffed. "I offered them something _better_. Better than anything you _heartless templars _ever could! Freedom, _power_, a chance to rise above their brethren!"

I could not think, could not speak. My voice was strangled, my hands bound. I stared at the blood-stained floor, tears filling my vision.

"You have done _nothing_ but suppress our true potential, and tonight - you will _pay dearly_ for that mistake," he growled, offering me one last, pitying look of disgust before sweeping his robes around and ascending the staircase to the Harrowing Chamber.

"Seeing as you aren't so _receptive_ to a desire demon's offer, I will have to contain you myself," I heard him call from the top of the staircase. Out of the corners of my vision I saw a barrier drawn high up to the ceiling, pulsing with dark magic. It wasn't until I heard the sound of the chamber doors shut behind him that he released his physical hold on me, and my hands and feet were released, as was my voice.

I remained on the floor, overwhelmed with such shame and horror at what I had done, and _failed_ to do, that I could do nothing but lie motionless and weep.

_Maker, please forgive me.. _


	26. Demon's Temptation

**POV:** Isthalla

* * *

I had expected scowls of templars and magi alike lining the walls of my Tower upon my return. I had expected to return, and find that no one had missed me; or that the rumors of my abominations-possessed body were true. I expected to walk past the apprentice dorm and see the fear and mistrust on the faces of my former friends as they turned and murmured to one another about the stories of my departure. My banishment.

_No mage has ever been banished from a tower.._

I almost found myself in a state of admiration for the title. Isthalla, the mage who invoked the wrath of Greagoir and lived. Isthalla, the only one ever to be kicked out of the Circle. It was endearing, at best.

Today, it felt bitter.

As we crossed the dark lake of the tower, I stared down at the waters, thinking of earlier times. Thinking of how many bodies sat at the bottom of the lake. Some I had known; some I had never had the chance to know. I remembered seeing the templars as a child, dumping faceless bodies in the lake for those that missed the water and landed on the Circle grounds instead.

I remembered their anguish.

I let my fingertips lace across the water, rippling in a distilled moment of quiet. How calm the waters were; how different than I remembered as a child. To the tower magi, Lake Calenhad was a great, foaming monster with teeth and claws, not taking a second's breath to take you under and devour your soul alive. It looked different from the other side.

I had never expected to be crossing over this lake again, much less step foot on the opposite shore where those big, iron gates loomed over me the same as they had as a child. I still felt so terribly small and meek standing against them. I could still imagine the eyes of a monster perched upon their great, iron walls.

But inside was a different story. Inside, we found the stench of death and fear. The sound of distant screams that sent my nerves on edge and heart thrashing. Greagoir looked like he had seen a ghost.

_The tower is taken.._

The words echoed dully off my mind, though I hadn't comprehended them. I was too busy watching the others, my eyes desperately scanning the room for his red hair; his sad, brown eyes. I could feel my stomach twist over in knots when I saw just how scarce left of them there were in the entrance hall - and that he _wasn't there._

_The Rite of Annulment_ is where I returned to the conversation, the place where my entire body instantly bristled and I turned my teeth on Greagoir. He may have revoked me from my home (funny how I once called it a prison), but I would never allow his wrathful hands into the innocence of the tower. They had nothing to do with this.

Absolutely nothing.

I fought him, I combated him there in the entrance hall with every templar - injured or not - standing warily by with their remembering eyes trained on me. I would take on every last one of the mongrels if they wanted; let them try.

Greagoir offered a compromise - an in-between. He saw the look in my eyes; the knowing brimstone of determination that I would not back down. He did not feel ready to take on that threat, my provocation. If I could simply get inside and find Irving - bring him back - I could save them. If I could get inside-

_I will find you._

I made no questions for ifs or maybes. He was there. He _had_ to be. For all my taunts, I knew him to be a skilled templar - perhaps higher than any of his peers. He was a well-trained templar, unfortunately, and if I knew anything about him… he was still alive. He was fighting. He would not abandon the tower as Greagoir had, the coward. Him and all his men hunkering in the entrance like frightened children. Damn them all.

We rushed down the corridor, myself lost in a frantic daze as I threw the obstacles aside, frantically searching the rooms for those, the ones I knew and cared about. I hid the choke that just barely bubbled in my throat as I found the cold dead eyes of their familiar faces, their bodies still freshly slaughtered with their blood decorating the walls. I swallowed hard, ignoring my twisting stomach, and moved on. There was no time for grief; I had to find the ones still alive.

Never in my life did I expect to be so glad to see Wynne, as sure-footed and fiery as I remembered her with her staff raised at the magical force field. I saw the pain in her face, and the distraught will of her dying strength. She could not keep the barrier up; I would not leave her to die. My gaze found the children, and something stirred deep in my chest as I saw the fear in their eyes, and recalled the feeling as well. Greagoir had wanted to leave them to the wolves. He would have let them die in here, alone, without a single flicker of hope.

I would not abandon a single soul left inside.

For all that was left of me, I would not let Greagoir dispose of them as he had of me. Damn him to hell for so quickly thinking he could offer innocent _children_ up as bait for these monsters. I felt the bitter rage consume me, well-prepared to take on every damn abomination and templar alike in this tower, and fight my way out through the Chantry itself if need be. Greagoir _would not have them._

I would die before I would see such a merciless act committed on my brothers, my _sisters_, and my teachers. This was all I had to recall of a family. Faces that had meant _nothing_ to me were now my only grasp of hope and determination. They were all I had to grasp, and my hands would be cold, dead claws before he pried them away.

Alistair did not see this cause so readily.

I had never cared to pay attention to him; though he mentioned he had trained as a templar, I felt no ready threat. Not until he stepped in, and took the side of _him_, the Commander and my enemy. He was the fire blazing in my eyes, and the bitter memory in my heart as the one who had cast us away and murdered us into the hands of our attackers, these demons.

_How could you?_

Someone I had never cared for of his opinion now so suddenly and eagerly wounded me. I felt anger, and surprise, by his words. They stung me like none other. Perhaps because I had seen a likeness in him; a same eager and kind likeness to the templar I so desperately wanted to find again. He shattered that invisible respect within seconds from the moment the words left his lips.

_These are not people, Isthalla. Not anymore._

I reacted with anger, and rage. I tore every shred of confidence he had apart, and left him bleeding at the back of the group with a terror written in his eyes that I had prior not accomplished. Let him suffer and grieve over his words. I never wanted to see his face again. I _hated_ him from that moment. I could not put into words what wrath he now invoked within my heart.

_So now I know where you stand, templar.._

I had made it my decision to ignore him for the rest of the journey, with Wynne at my front and Morrigan lingering behind, perhaps to make sure he did not run off like the coward he was. Wretched, pitiful bastard. My lips curled in disgust as I considered his words. He wanted to _run_, save his own hide, and _sacrifice_ all these mages to abominations? Let them feed off their flesh as mere _food_?

I would make sure he saw exactly what it would mean to throw them to these creatures. I wanted to see the horror in his eyes when he saw exactly what an abomination looked like, and what it was like to witness an innocent mage being eaten alive by those monsters.

I darkly fantasized about these things, seething and infuriated, when we came around the staircase and I heard _her_ again.

_You should make him suffer…_

"_ISTHALLA, PLEASE!"_

I stopped at the top of the stairs, the wind knocked out of my chest at the sound of his voice. Tears enveloped my eyes, briefly, as I struggled to regain myself. Wynne sensed the disturbance, and turned on me in an instant.

"Isthalla, are you all right?" she tried. I could hear the sensing concern in her voice, the type that waited on the well-remembered history of my dealings with spirits. They were never very fond of my presence. I saw the knowing glint in her eye, the quiet _don't-let-them-in_ look that made a cold chill settle in my stomach.

"It's nothing," I brushed off without thinking. I forced myself to press forward, then froze at the archway when I saw _her_ there, standing in the middle of the room with the remnants of a mage bleeding in her grasp. The girl uttered a final, sobbing cry before her head was cracked in half and she dropped her body to the floor. I bit back the noise that struck my throat, and clenched my mouth shut.

"_Isthalla…_" she purred, gliding forward with a tilting smile on her poisoned lips. "What are you _doing_ here, love?" Her black eyes warmed at the sight of me as she reached out a clawed hand and brushed the bangs from my eyes. "And looking so distraught, my poor _darling_," she cooed, _tsk'_ing with a shake of her head. I was completely rigid.

"Why are you _here_?" I ground out, feeling my skin crawling with fear. This was the waking world, she shouldn't _be_ here. I had proved to myself she was well-contained within the realm of the Fade, where she belonged. No mage was stupid enough to let her out.

She laughed at this, circling around to my side to rest her cheek upon my shoulder. I shuddered at the embrace, though I knew she could feel the welcoming falter in my posture. I couldn't help myself.

"My darling girl," she whispered with a chuckle, "you know better than that.." She tapped my nose and moved back around front. "What better welcoming am I to be given?" she said while gesturing around the blood-splattered room, freshly littered with bodies. "They practically rolled out the carpet for me, my pet."

I felt a snarl pull at my lips.

"Are you the cause of all this?" I ground out, feeling my grip tightening around my staff. She looked genuinely surprised, and lowered down from her floating perch to set her feet upon the stone floor. Her hair collected around her in a weightless, dancing wave of coal black and midnight fire.

"But of course not," she said, wounded. A frown pulled at her mouth. "I would never do such a thing without you to enjoy it with me," she nodded.

"Then _who did this_?" I snarled, feeling my patience drawing to a close. My hand was beginning to shake around my staff. She paused, absorbing my stance, then quietly shifted back to my side, leaning in until I could feel the chill of her breath on my lips.

"You, _of course_," she whispered. My heart skipped a beat.

I stepped back, eyes widening. "NO, I didn't-" I shook my head, glaring at her. I remembered what Wynne had said.

_This is Uldred's doing.._

She was lying; I would never do this to them, _never!_

_Hush, my little Isthalla…_

I turned my violent gaze back on her, a vengeful snarl on my lips. She was smiling across the room at me, now.

_Hush my sweet, I was only jesting…_

_You are too soft for this treachery. I know what you seek…_

My breath caught in my throat as I instantly formed the image of his face, in perfectly remembered detail, in my mind. Sad, lost brown eyes - wearied by the nights he suffered through ill-conceived doubts and fear. A silly, foolish little grin betraying his lips. Strict, yet kind face. Brazen red hair so carefully pressed back it looked silly.

_Cullen.._

I shut my eyes to try and force the grief of his name away. She was back at my side in an instant, threading her delicate claws through my hair, comforting me.

"Darling, it's all right…" she murmured. "I'm here to protect you." I was shaking with tears out of my control, now. I could not contain the emotions anymore; those I had so carefully forced away from the moment I stepped out of the tower. I fell to my knees in a fit of overwhelming fear as I imagined him lying dead, helpless, and with the eyes of a demon as his last waking vision.

_He abandoned your templar…_

My eyes flew open to stare at the floor. I saw blood splatter stained just in front of me; fresh. I swallowed, trying to quell my pain, but instead found it being replaced by a deep, stirring rage. She whispered into my ear.

_He would have sacrificed your Cullen to these creatures…_

_Left him to die._

_Left them all to die._

I felt my blinding anger fixating on his face, a red target in my eyes. Her cold hands brushed my shaking arms.

_He should suffer for what he said…_

I realized what she was asking. I knew what she wanted, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. My hands shook against the stone floor, blurry eyes fixated on the blood stained deep into the ground. It would stay there forever. The life of someone I knew, stained into the very core of this tower.

_Let me take him.._

_Hurt him, as he hurt you.._

I could feel the _no_ already forming on my lips, but felt the burn of my heart _screaming _for vengeance. My heart wanted him to suffer, to feel the agony I had felt when Greagoir ripped the Circle away from me, and crushed my broken heart along with it. I wanted him to suffer as I had suffered.

I swallowed hard, still staring at the blood, and forced my mind away from the idea. I thought of Cullen, still trapped in the tower. Still trying to fight his way out and save the others.

_He would save them.._

I knew if I were going to finish this battle, I had to do it through his eyes. I had to see through the compassion of his heart, and not my own. I did not possess the compassion and love necessary to bring this tower out of the ashes in time; but he would. My templar would. Maker preserve me, I would act in his stead. I could not push myself through this alone, but perhaps _he_ could.

With my heart set, I pushed myself to my feet and focused my mind. I must clear it of her; rid her illusions away. The task was suspiciously quick as the illusion of the dead girl's body vanished, and I was left standing in the center of the chamber with Wynne just at my heels.

Then Morrigan screamed.

"_Alistair!"_

A great, dropping dread filled my chest as I heard the telltale sound of his body dropping cold onto the floor. My heart froze, and body tensed as I heard the fading laughter of her voice in my mind.

_They will never learn…_

I turned in an instant, my wary eyes trained on Morrigan as she knelt at his side and began to reach out a fearful hand.

"Don't touch him," I ordered. Her eyes were wild with fear and grief.

"..No-" she shook her head. I knew she was already rejecting what I saw to be happening. "_No_, Isthalla he didn't! I was watching!""..No-" she shook her head. She was afraid; I had never warned her this could happen to him. I should have. "_No_, Isthalla he didn't! I was watching!" My jaw ticked.

I stepped up, pressing the tip of my staff against her shoulder to push her back. He still remained motionless, but I knew not for long.

I felt my heart grow heavy with burden as I knew what I had done, and could no longer undo. She had taken my invitation.

"Step back, all of you," I warned as I saw the flicker of light appear in his eyes. I raised my staff, using the other hand to usher Morrigan and Wynne behind me. He twisted unnaturally to his feet, and the moment I met the white eyes, I knew who I was facing. She smiled wickedly at me.

_Silly, foolish Isthalla…_

Alistair was taken.


	27. Bitter Truth

**POV:** Alistair

* * *

"_CULLEN!"_ she screamed again, this time louder - more desperate. I could hear the strain in her voice, an emotion I had never witnessed in all my travels with her. I felt a twinge of odd jealousy over it; the sound of her pain, her despair, her _longing_. I didn't understand who had provoked it, or why, but this was not the woman I had met back at Ostagar.

"_CULLEN, PLEASE ANSWER ME!" _she screamed again, this time her hand drawn by the mage, Wynne, who exchanged an odd look with the elf before she surrendered and lowered her cupped hands.

Maker's breath, the woman had _tears_ in her eyes..

"You might not want to shout-" I tried offering quietly with a pointed finger. "These abominations don't seem the friendly sort." She turned on me then, frigid eyes ablaze with a fury I had never seen.

"Dare you even _SPEAK to me,_ you wretched, _loathsome, BASTARD_-" she had her hand raised in crackling vengeance, and I instantly crumpled into my posture and held up surrendering hands, only to find myself spared.

"_ENOUGH, Isthalla!_" Wynne barked. "This bickering shall get us _nowhere!_ If you seek to chastise Alistair for his choice of words, then _do so another time._ We have more important matters to deal with!" Isthalla looked absolutely _livid._

"I agree…" Morrigan stepped into the conversation now - an honest surprise, in my opinion. I kept my eyes trained on Isthalla, however, who I feared was presently planning a way to melt my brain into a fine ooze while Wynne wasn't looking. I swallowed a budding lump in my throat.

"We should press on, Isthalla," Morrigan spoke, turning her troubled eyes to the angry little elf seeking to kill me. The fire seemed to lessen in her eyes when she turned her attention to the witch, her mouth pressed taut.

"We will find him," she murmured reassuringly to Isthalla while briefly touching a hand to her shoulder. I saw her expression completely change, yet again, as if some sort of invisible wall melted at the mere mention of this mysterious person's presence.

I waited until we were moving again to fall to the back of the line alongside Morrigan and tipped my head.

"Who in the Maker's name is she looking for?" I asked, bewildered, while still keeping my eyes trained on the back of her head should she attempt to try and sneak a hex over her shoulder.

"A man of no concern to you, Alistair," she responded numbly. My ears would have perked at the news - a _man?_ Maker's _beard-_

"A _man?_" I squalled a little too loudly. Wynne shot me a vicious _look_ that sent a cold twist into my gut as I sheepishly hunkered into my shoulders and adjusted my tone.

"_A man?_" I murmured. "Exactly who is this _man-fellow_ I had no knowledge about?" I demanded.

"Drop it, Alistair," Morrigan hissed. I frowned.

"I want to know!" I shot back, still wary to keep my voice under. I feared those elf-ears would catch the light of our conversation and turn on me at any given moment. "I have a right to know, you know-" I added defiantly. Morrigan raised a brow at that one.

"Really now?" she snorted.

"Yes, I do-" I continued, already feeling my boasting lie caving in on me. I had no business in her personal affairs, truly, but I didn't exactly find it fair that everyone else in the party knew and I didn't. Was I not trustworthy? I felt conflicted on this thought.

"Well when you can give me a truly good reason as to why I should reveal the personal matters of Isthalla's relationships with others to a man she _despises_-" Morrigan waved her hand in the air with a sneer, glancing at me,"-then please, _let me know_."

I blinked, surprised.

"Someone was actually crazy enough to be in a _relationship_ with that woman?" I scoffed, completely unbelieving to the bizarre statement. I could, in all honesty of the Maker, not find myself able to imagine a man who could _stomach_ that relentless, absolutely _mad_ woman much less have _relations_ with her. Not unless they were missing limbs or some other part of their body.

Morrigan didn't seem very happy at my insinuation, and shot me a nasty glare in return. I had apparently made it my duty today to collect loathsome glares from all of the women today. I decided to take count as it being the fourth in the past half-hour. A record.

"Just because _you_ may find her disagreeable doesn't mean the rest of us do, you witless bastard-"

"_Really,_ is the name-calling that necessary?" I ground out, annoyed. "I've had my fair share of the word _bastard_ today, for sure. Yes, _I get it_. Thank you. Reminder noted."

"Seems fitting enough," she retaliated, still glaring. I swear a small grin tipped the corner of her lips. "It is the truth, after all."

"Hey, that's not fair!"

"'Tis fair in my opinion-" she shrugged.

"No, it's not," I argued. "Only if I can call you a bastard as well." I stubbornly crossed my arms, challenging her word. She perked a brow, smiling.

"You are aware that _bastard_ only applies to a man..?" she trailed off, so ardently trying to contain the condescension from her tone. I could hear it loud and clear, however. It put a distasteful frown on my lips.

"I don't think I like what you're insinuating.." I narrowed my gaze.

"I insinuate nothing; simply make observations of things that are true, Alistair-" she shrugged, relenting her eyes away as she turned back to watch the front and ascend the staircase along with Wynne and Isthalla. I followed suit.

"And what _observation_ do you make of me, then?" I challenged, my arms now at my sides, balled into fists.

"Only that which is fact, Alistair-" she said pointedly while tapping a finger to the air. "One - you are a bastard-"

"And two-" she pointed again, nodding.

"-You are a fool."

I opened my mouth to retort, and instead found my angry retaliation drowned out by the sound of a scream. My head whipped around to the source, and eyes halted upon the twisted, disfigured form of a woman in the center of the room. She was engulfed by what looked like pulsating, blood-drenched skin. It was slowly crawling its way up her body, and as it made its way to devour her entirely, I could hear the sickening crack of bones and flesh melding into the creature.

"O-Oh Maker's _blood_-" I whispered, the life and warmth leaving my body in an instant rush of sickening cold that took over my skin. I felt the instant need to vomit, and plastered a hand to my mouth to stay the turning nausea. "W-What _is_ that thing?" I couldn't stand hearing her screams; my heart plummeted into my throat as another gurgled, strangling cry pierced the chamber and echoed off the walls.

"_HELP HER!_" I screamed at the others, but none would move. Tears began to prick at my eyes as I looked back at her face - innocent, helpless. She looked at me with fear and despairing hope as the life was gruesomely taken from her body. I choked on what could have been a dry heave and sob building in my throat, and again had to crush my hand further over my mouth.

"For _M-Maker's sake,_ at least put her out of her misery!" I gestured wildly to her. Still, I could not move. Fear and horror froze me to my spot, as had the others. No one could move, nor react. We simply stood and watched in horror as this beast, this _creature_ of a demon ate away at her skin and bones.

My eyes searched for Isthalla, and found her standing at the very front, arms spread just shy of her body, hands frozen in an apparition of sightless terror. She was in a state of shock. I saw them tremble, then begin to shake. I tore my gaze back to the fraction of her face visible to me, and strained my expression into desperation.

"_HELP HER!"_ I screamed.

She reacted with a jerk to my words, posture abruptly shifting into a taut, motionless stone wall as she jerked her hands back to her side and gripped them hard into her palm. I saw some remnant of pity and perhaps even sorrow pass over her face before she turned to look at me, defiant tears trickling down her face, and gripped her jaw.

"You do it." she ordered. I stared, disbelieving, with hands dropped dumbly at my sides, before she winced with impatience and stormed up to me. She ripped my sword from the hilt and shoved it into my hands.

"If you're so intent on killing them, then _do it_," she snarled, a dark fury rising in her eyes. It was different than her anger, Maker this was something entirely absent of the fury I had witnessed earlier. This was a cold and emotionless wound I had unwittingly stirred deep within the belly of a beast. This was personal, and harmful, and _Maker_ did I feel like crawling back within my skin with unrelenting _fear_ over the bitter intensity she displayed.

My face crinkled into a look of first despair, then horror at what I knew she expected me to do. I took the weapon with numb, deaf hands and stared at her, feeling the ice sink into my veins. The metal weight of the sword was dead within my grip as I looked at her, passing once more over the vindictive ferocity set in her stone-hard eyes, and looked back at the woman in the center of the room.

I took careful, silent steps toward her, my heart pounding like an iron hammer in my chest. I felt sick; I could hurl over the stone floor at any moment. My legs were shaking, and palms already laced with cold sweat. I stopped a foot from her face, just barely distinguishable now against the pulsing flesh slowly crawling its way over her jaw. If I hadn't been so entranced by the horrible sight, I would have vomited. I could smell the stink of death on her already, the scent of decaying flesh and a rotting, swallowed corpse.

I swallowed hard, feeling the world around me fade into the background. All I could see was the girl - she couldn't be older than Isthalla, perhaps younger. Her eyes were filmed over with a sightless possession, and I wondered briefly what she must have looked like before this… creature had taken her. She twisted her head now, silent, looking at me with those empty eyes.

"P-Please, _help me_.." she whispered, barely louder than a tremble. She was so weak, so exhausted from trying to fight it. My stomach clenched from the pain in her voice. Tears stung my eyes again.

"I-I'm so _sorry_," I shook my head, raising my sword. She smiled at me then, through the blood now trickling from her eyes and mouth.

_You would kill them all, anyway…_

I froze mid-swing as the words cut through my subconscious. I stared at her, blissful, empty smile written on her face, as I felt the sword lower in my hands.

"_W-What..?"_ I choked out, feeling my words beginning to constrict in my throat. A sudden fear began to tremble under my skin and raise the hair on the back of my neck. My body was trembling - itching to get away. My heart began to thrash violently in my chest as I looked at her, begging to decide if I had heard another speak.

_You will kill her.._

The sword dropped from my hands in horror as she twisted her head around, the bones snapping and squelching as I watched the flesh of her neck rip in half. Blood poured from her mouth now, down onto the twisted form of her decayed breasts and onto the floor. I took a shaking step backwards, tears now forming in my eyes as I felt an overwhelming terror take hold of my chest. I couldn't breathe - I couldn't think. I felt like screaming from the terror she invoked from mere laughter, yet no words produced.

_You will kill her, maim her, rip her, rape her.._

_Tear the flesh from her BONES!_

"_NO!"_ I screamed, holding up an arm so I wouldn't have to look at her anymore. I shut my eyes, trying to force the nightmare away. _Maker's blood_, where were the others? Where had they gone? Everything was shrouded in a wall of shadow. I couldn't see where I was standing any longer. The stone chamber had disappeared, and all that remained was the girl, _standing there_, looking at me with horrible eyes.

"You would have killed us all," she mocked me. I fell to my knees, shaking, trembling, feeling the tears leak down my face as I put my head into my hands and sobbed.

"N-No, no, _no_-" I begged, rocking back and forth. I could sense her there, hovering just inches from my ear. She smiled.

"Let us die and rot in the consuming flesh of our friends, our brothers, our _sisters_," she whispered in a mocking voice. I tried to scream to shut out her voice, but only a hoarse whisper managed to produce.

"That's what you said to _her_, Alistair-" she murmured, and I felt her cold hand brush my face. I opened my eyes then, staring wide through the slits of my fingers as I recalled the argument before entering the heart of the tower.

"_I stand with Greagoir. We should invoke the Rite of Annulment."_

"_You would condemn every living being in this Tower to death, then?" she spat, horrified. I saw an equal look of surprise written on Morrigan's face - an uneasy disappointment I felt cornered by. I turned back to her, desperate._

"_These magi are not PEOPLE, Isthalla! Not anymore! I'm not about to risk my life for an abomination that will probably kill us! Think reasona-" _

"_Maker send you into the deepest pit of HELL, Alistair!" she screamed._

"_These are MY PEOPLE; I will fight every last damned abomination if it means my LIFE, if I know I can save just ONE!"_

_There were tears in her eyes when she spoke._

_Yes, you remember it don't you?_ she whispered. I watched as the floor shifted into a pool of water, and saw Isthalla's face reflected in the dark pool. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes filled with a great regret and sadness. I felt a lump form in my throat.

The image shifted, flashing over the scene of a templar screaming her name and reaching out a hand to someone. It was a woman, a mage standing with her hands raised over him and a fury in her white eyes. It was-

"_Isthalla.._" I choked out, reaching desperate fingers to the water. The image instantly distorted as white lines spread over the water, fanning out in a great circle from the ripples produced.

_She loved him… a templar._

The demon's voice sounded sad, almost reflecting as she, too, watched the images flash in the darkness of the water. It shifted to a reflection of the same man, his eyes darkened by something I could not see. I saw a great sadness in his expression as well, and again heard him say her name.

"_Isthalla, wait-"_

It shifted again.

"_YOU SHALL NOT TOUCH HIM!"_

I saw the guards surround her at the entrance, and she - stepping in front of the other two - with her hand raised. A scream, and then darkness. Blood filled the water, and another name was screamed.

_JOWAN!_

It shifted, and I saw her on her knees, her face distorted by bruises and blood, and her hands bound. The Knight-Commander stood over her. I saw him raise an armored hand and knock her hard across the face, sending her to the floor. I felt myself visibly jolt at the sight, tears filling my eyes.

"_Why are you showing me this?_" I shuddered, anger now tensing into my posture as I looked up and searched for the demon once more. "I don't want to _see_ this," I ground out, taking one more glance at the water where I saw her lying in a bloodied heap, and stood to my feet.

"Stop it," I ordered, fists tensing at my side.

She reappeared then, floating some ten feet from where I stood. A desire demon; like the one we had seen on the first floor. I felt my jaw tense as I took in the sight of her, and breathed deep, preparing to protect myself.

"And why should I?" she laughed, floating over to me. I bristled as she came within a foot, but her clawed hands did not touch my skin. They merely ghosted over the shape of my shoulders as she spun around to my backside and whispered in my ear. "It's what you wanted, after all…" she murmured.

"T-That is _not_ what I wanted," I said, horrified, while pointing at the water, still reflecting horrible scenes I dare not embed to my memory. I had looked again, and tried to force my eyes away but found them stilled again by the terrible scenes. She was strapped down to a bed, screaming, her eyes and mouth lit with a red glow as the same templar tried to constrain her back down with his hands and yelled her name. I squeezed my eyes shut, turning my head to the side.

"I said I don't want to see this any longer-" I ground out. She laughed.

"But it _is_ what you wanted," she persisted, switching around to my left. "You said yourself - they're not _people_…" her two-toned voice hissed into my ear. "Why should it matter? Let them all _die_…"

"Stop it," I wavered, hearing my own voice beginning to crack.

"Perhaps she should die as well, don't you think?"

"I said _stop it_."

"Let them scream, let the innocent children be torn apart by the abominations. Flesh on the walls, slinging corpses to the ceiling, blood for decoration!" she cackled.

"STOP IT!" I screamed, swinging my fist around to where she stood. She vanished instantly, reappearing in a cloud of smoke in front of me.

"What is it? The templar does not like hearing the truth?" she chuckled. I could feel the anger beginning to burn in my chest, deep down until it reached the tips of my shaking fists.

"_Shut up_, I am not a templar-" I snarled, my vision blurring her until she was nothing but a foggy outline of purple. "You will leave now, demon. I will not let you bring harm to her or any mage in this tower!"

She laughed then, a chilling and cold laugh that sent a shiver up my spine. My vision cleared again, and her black eyes were staring me down across the dark room.

"Silly _boy_, it is not _I_ you should fear over her safety-" she began, stretching out a clawed finger to the dark void to my left. I felt my stomach twist over as I narrowed my eyes and, to my horror, saw a muddied image of myself appear along with the others. I took numb steps towards the image, confused.

"What is this dark magic..?" I trembled. I watched myself as if I were walking behind by a few feet. Morrigan walked beside me as we made our way up the steps.

"_Just because you may find her disagreeable doesn't mean the rest of us do, you witless bastard-"_

"_Really, is the name-calling that necessary?" I ground out, annoyed. "I've had my fair share of the word bastard today, for sure. Yes, I get it. Thank you. Reminder noted."_

I stared, confused and bewildered, as I watched the scene replay from a third perspective. Isthalla stepped through the open archway into the open room, but instead of being greeted by the disfigured woman being consumed by the pulsing flesh, there was nothing. The room was empty.

I opened my mouth to ask the demon, and found my words stuck in my throat as I heard Morrigan's strangled voice call out my name. A pain struck my chest.

"_ALISTAIR!" _she yelped, turning to my body, crumpled on the floor. The others turned to look at me. I saw fear flicker in Isthalla's eyes as she stepped up after the others, staff gripped tightly in her hands.

Morrigan knelt over me with trembling hands, trying to wake me by continuing to call my name.

"Don't touch him," Isthalla ordered. Morrigan froze mid-reach and looked up at her, eyes wide.

"..No-" she shook her head. I saw fear in her eyes, followed by grief. "_No_, Isthalla he didn't! I was watching!" Isthalla remained motionless.

"Not carefully enough," she chided. "Step back, all of you," she warned, tapping her staff to Morrigan's shoulder. I saw her offer one last, worried glance before standing to her feet and taking a slow step back. I could feel the foreign knot twisting in my chest at the sight of Morrigan's fear.

What was wrong? Why was she so upset?

I watched as the others stepped back from my body, and suddenly felt a cold chill settle over my skin. I looked back to the demon, and instead found a woman standing beside me. I yelled and jumped away when I recognized the face - red lips, the same red markings and dark hair - and found myself frozen in a posture of bewilderment as I stared at the woman who was _not_ Isthalla.

Her skin was as white as a ghost, and long, dark hair tumbled down her back in a wave of ink black. She looked so frightfully similar to her… in ever way nearly, except for the shape of her face. Her face held a kindness to it that Isthalla's did not possess, and her eyes… a gentle warmth otherwise absent in the eyes of the woman I knew.

"_Who are you?_" I demanded, but found my voice barely treading on a wavering whisper. I tried swallowing hard to rid myself of the dry sensation in my throat. My hands were cold and clammy again, and the sense of fear was beginning to creep over my body once more.

_I am a spirit…_

No words spoke from her lips, yet I heard the voice speak as clearly as before. I creased my brow at her and shook my head.

"You're a demon," I argued, face crumpling into confusion. "I saw you-"

"Oh _really_, did you see me?" she asked, perking. I saw her brown eyes shift to an empty blackness, and again the cold whispered over my arms. I felt chills settle across my skin, and promptly rubbed them with a shaking hand.

_Not everything is in black and white, templar.._

She shifted again, back to the familiar demoness I had witnessed earlier. I felt myself bristle on instinct at the sight of her.

"No more games, creature-" I said defiantly while raising my hands into a defensive posture. "You will stop this now or face my blade."

"Oh, really?" she asked, genuinely surprised. A smile curled on her demon lips as she tilted her head a me and laughed. "I believe it is _you_ whom you should worry about, templar-" she said while pointing a bony index back to the black abyss.

I saw the shadows shift once more to show me the tower room where I had last been standing. I could see Morrigan standing to the side, petrified, and traveled my eyes the length of the room. I sucked in a sharp breath.

_No…_

There, at the other end of the corridor, I saw myself locked in a violent battle with Isthalla. I swung my sword relentlessly, my movements possessed by an unnatural force as I twisted and lunged at her again and again, all the while her screaming my name.

"Alistair, _stop this!_ Do you hear me, STOP!"she yelled, but I did not waver. I did not budge. For a brief interlude, I watched myself lower the sword and huff out beast-like snorts through my nose. My eyes were an empty, glowing white. I felt my breath hitching in my throat.

"Isthalla, no, _no!_" I cried, trying to reach out for the image but finding it just shy of my grasp every time. "I'm here!" I yelled, my voice cracking with disbelief. "_Please_, Isthalla!"

_She can't hear you…_

I whipped my head to the demon beside me, enraged by the satisfied grin curling on her lips. I turned back to the reflection, my heart beginning to pound the faster I was forced to watch myself attack my comrades. I had still not moved in the image; I stood there, heaving, and Isthalla watched me from ten feet away, her staff raised warily.

"..Alistair?" she tried, one hand out. I continued to stand in the middle of the room, sword tip touching the stone floor, and breath heaving in and out like an angered ox.

"NO, don't-" I tried to warn her, but she couldn't hear me. She reached out, and in that instant I watched my possessed body grab hold of her wrist, twist her into the air, and slam her with sickening force into the stone floor. A great _crack _resounded against the walls with her scream, then complete silence. Her motionless body was abandoned in the broken stone slabs of the floor and I watched myself turn on Morrigan, still standing in the corner with a terror I had never seen enveloping her eyes. The reflection abruptly faded and, suddenly, I was enveloped in darkness once more.

"No, _NO-"_ I screamed, clawing through the black to find it again, to see her and make sure she was okay. I swung around to turn on the demon, and found her absent as well. A plane of pure darkness stretched out before me. I felt angry, bitter tears stinging my eyes.

"_LET ME GO!"_ I screamed, but no one appeared. I heard an echoing laugh fade through the black abyss and disappear into nothingness.

_I have given you exactly what you wanted…_

_They will all die at your hands._


	28. Jealousy

**POV:** Morrigan

* * *

"Isthalla, _get up!_" I begged, my voice betraying my fear. Her body remained cold and motionless between the cracked stone of the floor where he had attacked her. I turned my eyes back to the thing, this _abomination_ I'd sworn not to believe. I sucked in a sharp breath.

"Alistair, it's me-" I tried. He was advancing on me quick, sword brandished securely in his grip. I found myself frozen to my spot, unable to think or conjure anything in my defense as I stared into his empty, white eyes.

_No, why are you doing this?_

Since when was I petrified by the sight of such a witless man? I watched Wynne step into the fight now, her staff raised as she shot an electric bolt just shy of his heel, drawing him off like an angry mongrel beast frothing at the mouth. I remember what Isthalla had told me of abominations, but I hadn't believed her. Not until I saw the life leave his eyes and the hate of his fist crush her body.

_What magic is this that turns you against her?_

I wanted nothing to do with this darkness. But I could not stand idly by and watch him tear the others apart. But-

_You can't hurt him.._

_You won't._

The bumbling, stupid, witless oaf of a man had done more than his fair share of stupid things in the past, but - he did not deserve to _die_. It was now I felt the sting of empathy over how Isthalla must have felt, and was feeling… if she felt anything at all now.

I looked to her crumpled body still lying on the stone floor. She hadn't budged, hadn't flickered any sign of response to the rest of the world. Frustration began to tug at my mind. I turned my attention back to Wynne, who was no mage for attack spells. She was suffering badly in her same attempts to keep from hurting him, dodging and ducking every swing he could give. I saw him land a clear fist across her shoulder as she yelped and went to the ground as well.

Anger snapped into my fists as I turned to Alistair and reacted on instinct - my hands drawn out with a red glow as I shut my eyes and begged for forgiveness.

"I'm sorry-" I said before releasing the lightning spell and knocking him clean to the ground, unconscious. I rushed over to Wynne who, for an old witch, was fairly tough. She groaned and sat up, her hand on my shoulder.

"You must get me to Isthalla, hurry," she coughed. I helped the old woman to her feet, carefully, and picked my way over to where Isthalla lay. I dropped to my knees.

"Alistair, what have you done," I whispered to myself while tracing empty, shaking hands over her body. Wynne knelt down beside me and touched a hand to Isthalla's neck.

"We must work quickly," she murmured while moving her hands over Isthalla's chest and beginning to work over her healing magic. "Please, fetch her satchel from the doorway. There should be a flask of poultice to help." I deafly nodded and stood to my feet, jogging over to snatch up the bag and returning to her side.

"I fear I may not be able to pull her from recovery," she said in a grave, quiet tone. I felt panic creep into my chest as she continued to rhythmically work her hands over Isthalla, aglow with a faint green light of magic. Her brow knitted together. "Please, pull the flask from the satchel."

I obeyed and quickly fished my hand through the pack until it found the shape of a glass bottle and pulled it out. The red liquid within was scarce. I looked at her, worried.

"Bring the bottle to her lips; lift her head," she instructed. I did so, my breath hitching in my throat as I eased the flask towards her and let the red contents slip down her throat. Wynne reached out a hand and placed it back on her neck once more, pausing, hesitant, then slumped into her shoulders with a deep sigh.

"She will live…" she said, relieved. I felt a great weight pulled from my chest as well. I shut my eyes.

"Did you hurt him too terribly?" she asked. My eyes flew open as I followed her attention to where Alistair's body lay motionless across the corridor. I grimaced.

"I don't believe so.." I answered, though my words sounded doubtful. A look of concern crossed between us as she labored to stand again.

"Wait-" I said, putting a supporting hand to her shoulder. "I may not be the best, but my mother taught me a few things regarding healing-" I paused and pressed my palm against her shoulder, watching the faint glow of green surround it. The woman gasped, just slight, then pulled herself away from my hand with a shudder.

"Thank you," she breathed, working out the stiffness from her shoulder. I nodded.

We took careful steps over to where Alistair lay. I put my hands on my hips.

"Is there any way to tell if he's-?" I paused, unsure of what to say. Wynne looked at me, concern flickering in her eyes before glancing back down at him. She shook her head.

"No, I'm afraid there is not," she said. "Not until he wakes."

"I had hoped as much.." I responded dully with a weary sigh. I took a crouched seat beside him, hands in my lap and mouth pressed together.

"You've done all that you can," she reassured me, though the words felt empty. I hadn't done everything. I had failed to do _anything_, in fact, and now I had nearly killed both Isthalla and-

"He will be okay," she squeezed my shoulder as if reading my thoughts. My eyes flickered to her, then resumed their post watching over Alistair. I did not know what it was like to be possessed by a demon; I imagine it wasn't a fantastic experience…

I silently hoped he wasn't in pain.

"We can only hope Isthalla wakes before him," Wynne added as she took a seat across from me on a broken chunk of pillar, attempting to work out the soreness in her bruised leg where she'd fallen. She winced. "She's quite gifted with this sort of magic-"

"You mean to say possession?" I asked, surprised.

_She never mentioned that.._

Wynne shook her head, her voice on the bare fringe of a dry laugh. "Maker, no," she said. "However, I do know her to have touched in the fields of memory charms. She would have a better chance at bringing him back from whatever prison the demon has him in." I didn't quite like the sound of _prison_ when referring to his state. I turned worried eyes back to Alistair, my hand briefly touching his shoulder.

_I'm so sorry… _

_I should have been more careful._

"Fool of a man.." I murmured, resting my hand on his chest. A sudden gasp erupted from him then, and I jerked my hand away in fear as I saw him jerk back to life.

"Stand back-" Wynne warned, but it was too late. His eyes jumped open and found me sitting beside him. I held my breath. Hazel eyes.

Warm, living, breathing eyes.

"_Morrigan?_" he murmured. His voice was hoarse and thick, as if he'd been screaming. I felt a jolt in my chest at the sound, the _way_ he spoke that made me twinge with regret and guilt. My expression crumpled.

"'Tis me…" I responded quietly, my hand replacing itself back on his shoulder. He seemed confused, then pained as he looked at me with wide eyes.

"_I-Isthalla_-" he groaned, his eyes frantically searching my face for answers. I pressed my lips taut together, unwilling to tell him. Not wanting to.

_Did he know?_

I couldn't bring myself to tell him. Instead, he pushed my hand away and forced himself to sit up. I saw his expression wince from pain, and tried to offer a hand to help. He shoved me away, stumbling to his feet and over to where Isthalla still lay. I wasn't sure why, but I felt so suddenly wounded by his indifference. I quietly pulled my hand back to my chest and watched him stumble his way over to where Isthalla was.

"_Isthalla_?" he croaked out, placing his hand over her own. Another prickling feeling in my chest that I quickly shoved away. He couldn't know; he didn't care.

_You stupid oaf._

I stood promptly to my feet, brushed off my front, and stepped over to him.

"Seems a demon saw fit to possess your body and attack us," I offered in a flat voice. He didn't look as shocked as I'd hoped for. Instead, he glanced once to me and looked back at her.

"I know-" he murmured. "I had to watch."

I felt the knot of words constrict in my throat. So he had seen…

_Yet your concern is over only one of us.._

I resigned myself to stand off to the side as he continued to watch over Isthalla, briefly letting his thumb brush over her palm. Since when did he care?

Only moments ago he considered the woman too vile to actually care about anyone. I felt a stinging jealousy over his hypocritical behavior. I only vainly hoped Isthalla would wake up in time to slap him hard across the face for touching her. The thought brought a secret satisfaction to my mind I couldn't help but eagerly indulge in whilst he busied himself with fawning over the fallen leader.

I wanted to feel bitter towards her, but I could not bring myself to do it. A rift stood between myself and the two, a great wall separating miles between us despite that only a few feet physically kept me away. My mind had suddenly shifted from the fact that I hated this man with every fiber of my being to an unwanted jealousy of his abrupt and sudden change of heart towards her.

_Who am I to stand in the way?_

"Isthalla, please," he begged, now brimming on _tears_ of all things! I was beginning to wonder if the man wasn't still possessed. This _certainly_ wasn't the Alistair I'd argued with naught but a half-hour earlier. He began to knead at the fabric of her robes, trying to will her awake. His begging became frantic, until I heard an audible hitch in his throat.

"Wake up, _please_-" he whispered into her hand. And as if the words were a magical phrase for inducing someone out of a coma, her eyes fluttered open and she took in a thick, ragged breath.

I stood to attention, as did Wynne as we waited to see her make her way out of the fog of her mind and back to the waking world. She shut her eyes briefly, then reopened them to make out the faces around her. I knelt down beside Alistair, my eyes watching her for signs of possession.

"_Thank the Maker_," Alistair breathed. I shot him an irritable look, which he ignored, and turned my gaze back to Isthalla. She still looked a bit confused.

"Alistair?" she said, though she sounded like she was simply trying to find her voice again rather than make sure it was not some other stupid oaf sitting beside her still cradling her hand like an idiot.

As if she read my thoughts, she connected her eyes to his hands, which cradled her own like a prized possession. She lightly tugged it away, pulling it back to her chest in slight horror and used it to push herself into a seated position. Alistair tended to her every move, even going as far to help her stand up. Wynne said nothing, despite the obvious danger of her moving so quickly after having her entire body slammed into a stone floor. She wobbled and fell against Alistair, who instead of bristling - seemed to completely melt into her posture and slid his arm under her arms, hoisting her up against his chest.

The same, prickling nag tore at my chest, making my stomach clench and heart skip a beat. What nonsense.

This was quite possibly the most ridiculous thing I had ever witnessed. Pulling my lips into a frown, I stood to my feet as well and followed suit after the two "lovebirds". Wynne decidedly took up the banner of walking alongside me, some five feet behind Alistair and Isthalla.

"Quite the sight, isn't it?" she chuckled under her breath. I crossed my arms and sneered.

"If you like horrific, twisted images - then I suppose," I bit back a bit too defensively. Wynne perked a brow at me.

"And why is that?" she tested. I knew that tone well. The delving, let-me-analyze-your-every-thought tone that she used on Isthalla very often. I wasn't going to fall for the old woman's tricks. I was grateful for her help, but she wasn't going to pry any dark, deep secrets out of me any time soon.

"Nevermind," I waved her off, quickening my pace to step up beside Isthalla. Alistair looked a little offset by my interruption, which I quickly combated with a glare and gesture for him to move.

"I've had quite enough of this nonsense," I snapped while waving him off. He hesitated moving then, glancing at Isthalla, reluctantly released her and stepped away. I shot him one last glare for effect. "We won't get anywhere at this rate," I huffed while helping Isthalla over to a nearby chunk of rubble to sit on.

"Wynne, do we have any more poultice?" I craned my neck to look over my shoulder. She blinked in surprise.

"No, I don't-"

"Nevermind, I'll have to do this the way mother taught me, then," I hushed her, turning back to Isthalla. She seemed a bit more aware of her environment now, and offered a concerned scowl down at me. I glanced at her.

"This might hurt a little," I warned briefly before taking her ankle against the flat of my palm and grappled in the other, then giving it a good twist. An audible _snap_ followed.

"Wh-_AUGH!_" she shrieked, instantly jerking forward and grabbing her leg after the bone was popped back into place. She shot me a violent look before tending back to her ankle. I stood and brushed my trousers off.

"Well then, shall we move on?" I offered.


	29. Rest

I had since abandoned my post beside the others and scouted ahead, glancing back every so often to check and make sure another one hadn't fallen to one of my accidental slips of magic. _Maker_, how did I allow that to happen? It was such a pitiful display of restraint on my part; I was disgusted with myself. A frown kept tugging at my lips the longer I thought about it, and _she_ certainly wasn't helping any. She had returned with biting ferocity, cackling away in my subconscious like a deranged child.

_Oh what fun, this glorious eve…_

I tried to ignore her, but it resounded as a nagging roar in my ears, making it impossible to decipher the others' chatter floating behind me in the distance as if they stood miles away. I shook my head, lightly, while rounding a corner - careful to lessen my weight on my injured ankle - and gritted my teeth together when I heard her continue on her rant.

_Filfthy, disgusting, worthless-_

"Isthalla-" I felt her hand at my back before I could register the words clearly enough over the audible shrieking the demon was crowding up my thoughts with. I paused, absorbing the words, then turned to find Morrigan at my side. My brow crumpled. Sincerity was never her strongest point, yet worry clouded over her face as I had never seen.

"Yes..?" I offered, though unintentionally snappish. I couldn't afford to be patient with this banshee woman screeching in my mind. I sighed when Morrigan gave me a peculiar frown and tilted her head. She lowered her voice so the others, though far enough behind that it didn't matter, would not overhear.

"Though tisn't my place, your mindset is beginning to worry me.." she offered in a careful choice of words. I glanced at her, still picking my way down the hallway, using my staff as support.

"I'm fine," I ground out, trying to forcibly push her shrieking laughter to the back of my mind. I shut my eyes for a brief moment, feeling the headache already forming. _Maker_, it was worse than the last time I was in the tower. I felt a hand briefly touch my chest, stopping me. I shot a viperous look at her, then withered when she again looked entirely surprised. Something was wrong; Morrigan wasn't one to be surprised by my actions. Something had changed-

"I fear I might have endangered you all by coming here," I admitted after a pause, shutting my eyes with regret. I had sworn to myself I would not mention this to anyone else. The last time I did, it had me forcibly kicked from the tower.

_Maker, Cullen.._

I saw Morrigan throw a wary glance over her shoulder at Wynne and Alistair, who now lingered far behind thanks to Wynne's sense of respected privacy. Thank the Maker for that woman's common sense. Alistair didn't look as happy to be so far behind, though didn't seem to have the willpower or desire to try and pass Wynne, who blockaded him with chiding _looks_ that sent him hovering back to the the fringes of the line, shoulders hunkered down like a beaten dog.

"I thought as much.." Morrigan sighed after she felt reassured the others were not listening. I saw her touch a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose, then lower when she turned back to me. "Last night you spoke of Greagoir evicting you from the tower-" she paused, chewing over her words, then furrowed a brow. "Isthalla, exactly _how_ did that happen? As far as I know, it isn't an every day thing that a Templar willingly releases a mage, and a _dangerous_ one at that." I felt a knot burrowing in my throat, recalling the scenes with unwilling pangs of feeling.

"The eve after my Harrowing I told Cullen of the nightmares I'd been experiencing," I explained.

"Yes, you told me that," she nodded, sounding a bit impatient as we rounded another corner of the abandoned floor. I tried to focus, but felt my eyes wandering about the empty hallway circling the second floor. We had not seen hair or head or a single living creature on this floor. It was beginning to put my nerves on edge; the complete lack of sound or life began to trigger a warning signal in my mind that something was terribly wrong.

"I did not mention that I began to hear voices after my initiation, did I?" I offered as plaintively as I could. I had hoped it would come off less crazy if I put less emphasis on it. Morrigan stopped in her tracks at the archway leading into the main corridor. I ticked my jaw when I found her startled eyes locked on my own.

"No, you failed to mention that," she scoffed, a bit injured that I hadn't mentioned it sooner. "Exactly how long have you been hearing these _voices_?" she demanded. I glanced at Wynne, who had stopped some ten feet from where we stood. Her arm fanned out to stop Alistair as well, who first looked at her arm and then to the both of us, stricken with the familiar look of a lost puppy.

"Ever since," I admitted, swallowing the lump in my throat. "I had hoped it was simply an after-effect of the lyrium-"

"Isthalla, you _fool_," Morrigan hissed, abruptly grabbing me by the arm. I jolted at her touch, my hand instinctively gripping my staff. She dragged me in close so the others wouldn't hear.

"If there is _one thing_ I learned from Mother-" she snapped, pausing to lower her voice and grip my arm tighter. "When one hears _voices_, _mage or no _- then you have a _very good reason_ to worry!"

"There are only _two reasons_ one should hear voices," she hissed. "One, you have been _possessed_. Or _two_, _you've gone mad_!" I felt my skin instantly bristle as I slapped her off and yanked my arm away.

"Well then I must have gone _mad_," I snarled back, feeling my defenses rising again. _She_ wasn't too happy about what Morrigan was saying, either.

_Me, possessing you? How weak!_

_I am far greater than such a lowly, desperate act…_

"Isthalla, _please-_," Morrigan pleaded, again grabbing for my shoulder. I jerked it away, storming my path through the archway, my mind on edge. She was cursing again, drowning out all other sound. I couldn't hear what Morrigan was saying, only that it was becoming more frantic as she tried following after me.

_You are so very tired, aren't you?_

A new voice had entered my mind, adding to the unwanted conversation flooding my subconscious. This one was new, this one made a cold chill tear up my spine as I fell to a dead halt in the open room, and fell my eyes upon the culprit.

An abomination.

I tried to take a step back, but it was too late. My body felt like iron, nailed to the stone floor. She was hissing and screeching in the back of my mind, telling me to run.

_POISON! Get away! Get away!_

A great, heavy weight began to press into my chest. The others were talking, trying to will themselves to move as well. My eyes fell to the floor, where I found the body of a mage twisted at his feet. My heart began to thrash in my chest.

_You should rest a while…_

"No, Isthalla, you must resist!" I could hear the voices, though I could not connect them to the others. I could feel my entire body shutting down, willing into an unwanted darkness. She was screaming at me now, cursing me for my weakness.

I tried to reach out my hand to grab him; something, _anything_ to break from the spell. My hands were made of stone. My body felt numb and cold and weightless. I could already see my vision blurring.

_N-No, not like this… I can't…_

She yelled at me to stop, yet the less I resisted, the less of her voice penetrated my conscious. It was a cold but peaceful place, quiet and uninterrupted. I didn't want it to leave. I wanted to be enveloped in the silence, that blissful silence that had been robbed of me from the moment I took my Harrowing. I was suddenly so very aware of my tired body, and how weary my muscles were; how exhausted my mind was.

_You deserve more… you deserve a rest._

I couldn't help but find myself falling into it's offering, slipping into the darkness like an old friend. Here it was quiet. Here it was calm. No blood, no monsters, no screaming.

_No pain…_

_Rest…_

_The world will go on without you… _


	30. The Fade

**Author's Note: **I'm making a warning of this now, before you start reading. This chapter contains a very graphic trigger for rape. It's not funny, and it's certainly not very comfortable to read. I apologize in advance for this portion of the story; it took me a few weeks to get the courage up to write this part. It upset me a lot to write it. Hopefully things will start looking up after this portion of the story. Anyway, continue forward - but with caution.

* * *

_Darling Isthalla.._

_Little, Sweet Isthalla.._

I opened my eyes to the sound of soft Antivan melodies humming in my ears. The darkness around me receded, and beneath me - the soft, pearl-white fabric of a dress. It felt warm, and scented of fresh lilacs. I breathed deep the familiar scent, closing my eyes. Her hands threaded through my hair as she continued to hum such comforting songs. I felt my chest welling with deep-buried desire, longing for something I had never owned. I clung to her dress, my chest clenched with a foreign pain.

"Hush, sweet Isthalla…" she murmured in her wonderful Antivan accent. It sounded like the softest silk, and filled me with sharp, prickling sensations of grief. I wanted so desperately to remember, to will this into being. I wanted this; something I had been robbed of my entire life.

_Why can't you be my mother?_

I could feel the tears brimming as I hugged her waist and wept, burying myself into the familiarity, the warmth, the _safety_ of her loving arms. Completely, unconditionally loving arms. Those that didn't judge me or shun me away. She did not fear me; she _welcomed_ me. She protected me.

She hushed me and continued humming her soft tune, then brushed the hair out of my eyes.

"Sweet Isthalla, do not cry," she whispered to me. "You have a visitor." I rose my weary head from her lap, still tear-stained and eyes reddened, to find _him_ standing there, his armor gone - replaced by the leather brown trousers I'd seen him wear once at the training grounds. He wore a simple, white tunic, with his bare flesh just barely visible beneath. He looked so very _human._ A great smile spread across his face as he opened his arms to me.

I stumbled into him, a fresh wave of joyful tears springing to my eyes as I buried myself into his enveloping arms and breathed him in. He smelled as wonderful as I remembered; so very _real_.I didn't want to let go.

He laughed and adjusted himself to my weight, pulling me into him until my feet lifted just slightly off the ground. He set me back down, taking a deep breath in and leaning back. I turned wet, tear-stained eyes up to his face. The untouched affection in his eyes nearly sent me into another fit of sobs. Instead, I felt my heart jump into my throat when he leaned forward and pressed his lips to my forehead. I felt a jolt of fire spread through my chest as he left his lips there, simply pressed against me. My eyes shut.

"_Cullen…_" I breathed in a tremble, completely loosening my posture against him. I melted into his arms, and he - welcoming me - brought me to him as he sat me upon the ground and wrapped himself around me. I curled up into his lap, feeling small and feeble. I felt safety in his arms, in his voice, and in his touch. He ran rough fingertips through my hair, adjusting himself to rest his forehead against mine.

"Stay with me," he murmured. My heart clenched up again in my chest as the foreign feelings spread through my body. It was terrifying and exhilarating. I breathed in a shuddering breath, trying to stay my overwhelming emotions, and placed a hand on his face. So warm. He turned to press a chaste kiss into the palm of my hand, making my chest hurt more. My face crumpled.

"I want to," I whispered. "More than anything, _Maker_ I would stay here forever.." I felt new tears beginning to form. The foreign sensation began to build until I could no longer ignore it; grief was beginning to consume me.

_You know what you must do._

My breath hitched in my throat as I tried to qualm the feelings, grasping onto the collar of his tunic. He tried soothing me by petting my face, but it only made it worse. The tears began to pour down my face. My entire body was shaking in his arms as I felt the guilt settle into the pit of my chest - a great, entrenching grief.

"I can't…" I choked out. Faint, threading memories of screams and blood filled my mind. The desperate sound of his voice. The tower. I began to pull away as I remembered.

_You're still in danger.._

I could feel his grip tightening on me now, fingertips lessening their kindness. Pressing, more urgent. Forcibly keeping me there. I felt panic building in my chest as I opened my eyes and looked at him.

"I'm so sorry, Cullen," I choked out. "I swore I wouldn't abandon you."

_I have to go back…_

"But I'm right here," he pleaded, though I could already hear the desperation pulling at his voice. I choked back another sob as I took his face in both hands and pressed my forehead to his. I shut my eyes, taking in a deep breath and shaking my head.

"No, you're not," I whispered. "I still have to save you."

_You fool.._

I opened my eyes to the empty, black gaze of my captor, though still using the form of my beloved. A stab of terror pulled at my chest as I witnessed the image of Cullen, my templar, with the eyes of a demon. I began to pull away, feeling his claws tightening into my sides.

"Y-You're hurting me, Cullen," I whimpered, fear betraying my voice. A snarl began to pull at his lips. A faint glow of purple enveloped his eyes as he dug his hands deeper into my sides, making me yelp.

"This is what you want," he hissed, his voice mirroring that of another's - a foreign entity. Panic spiked in my mind as I began to thrash and struggle to get away. I managed to shift to my feet, but still his arms grasped around me like iron. I began to yank his shirt and thrash violently back and forth, the sobs overtaking me the longer he held on.

"Don't go, Isthalla," he pleaded. I felt my heart pounding in my chest, trying to force myself to ignore the sound of his gentle voice. I had to resist.

"Let me go," I sobbed, but I was already losing the battle. I could not fight him; this was too much, and the demon knew it. My heart was too soft, my mind too readily buried within a realm that gave into everything he was - his voice, his touch, his _love_. I could not fight it alone.

_You must resist.._

Her voice returned to me, though distant. I froze in his arms to find her hovering some five feet behind him over his shoulder, her black eyes fixed on me.

_Fight him.._

"I can't!" I sobbed, still struggling but finding my heart no longer in it. I couldn't bring myself to hurt him. I felt his arms tightening around my waist, pulling me in. His hissing in my ears; claws digging into my skin. I squeezed my eyes shut, frantic and desperate for an escape.

_P-Please, help me! I can't do this!_

_What is it you want me to do?_

_Anything!_

_Choose your words carefully, mage. Lie to me and you will suffer._

"P-Please," I begged her, craning my view over Cullen's shoulder. "Help me!" He began to envelop me more - like a great, consuming shadow. I twisted around so my back was to him, and arms cradled into my body. I felt a cold chill sweep over my body.

_Should you ask, I will always comply.._

_But know that you must do this yourself._

I felt a weight drop into my hands. I opened my eyes to find the cold steel of a dagger in my palm. My eyes widened as I looked down at my reflection in the metal, and over my shoulder - the black eyes of Cullen. I squeezed my eyes shut.

_It's just an illusion.._

Though I repeated the words to myself, I couldn't help but feel a terrible dread overwhelm me as I took the knife in shaking hands and twisted back around to face Cullen.

_Forgive me.._

"I'm so sorry, Cullen.." I whispered before driving the dagger into his face. The creature let out a shriek before releasing me and stumbling back, clawing at his face. I stood and watched, frozen in my fear. Where the dagger had sunk turned to smoke and ash, then reformed again into the face of my templar as if the wound had never happened. The dagger was gone, and he was no less enraged than before. Smoke curled from his empty eyes as I saw black veins began to spread across his face. I took a horrified step back, hands raised in shaking surrender.

"N-No, Cullen-" I begged, feeling the terror envelop me as I saw the fury blaze in his eyes. "P-Please, don't!" I was paralyzed from movement. I could not face the man before me; the same man that had so kindly offered his affection and safety to me in the past. I could not bring myself again to raise my hand in defense.

He grabbed my wrist with a rough, clawed hand and jerked me to the ground. I screamed and felt my body crash against the earth, head ringing and eyes spotting with bursts of light from the impact. He smashed a boot heartlessly into my back. I yelled in pain and jumped, then breathed in the stink of dirt shoved into my face. I coughed and tried to stand, but instead felt a sharp pain go down my spine.

"Please, no.. not like this," I whispered, though I could feel my voice fading. I was losing the ability to speak. No one would hear my screams; not even _she_ was able to save me from him. I had no strength left to fight.

_I can't move.._

My body was frozen to the ground. I stared, eyes wide and heart pounding in my chest, at my trembling fingertips poised against the dirt. I willed them to move, and found myself unable to budge them even an inch. My breath began to shallow and flounder in my throat as my heart quickened its pace. I couldn't move. My body was shoved harder into the ground; a breathless yelp erupted from my paralyzed mouth, and again I was forced to meet a face full of dirt. I felt the weight of his boot press into the back of my skull, savoring the slow torture of pressing my face and mouth further into the ground. I coughed and choked on the grime filling my nose. I couldn't breath; I couldn't think. I began to cry again - a desperate, petrified kind of crying that made me want to scream. My entire body was shaking with the apprehension of what was happening - the unbelievable sin I knew to be unfolding right in front of my eyes. I could not bear to watch.

He moved his boot from my head and leaned down, grabbing a fistful of hair and jerking me back up. I tried to scream, but found no sound producing from my throat. Instead, I could only offer terrified tears that streaked down my face as I was forced to turn and face my attacker.

The warmth was gone from his eyes - replaced by a cold, empty blackness I could never wash from my mind again. The man before me was a monster; twisted and formed only to the partial shape of the templar I knew, while the rest adopted the true form of its master - a demon. His black claws grabbed my dirty, tear-stained face and pulled me close, his lips writhing into a vicious snarl.

"_Now you know what it's like.._" he growled before throwing me back to the ground. I yelped upon impact and crumpled into my body, shaking and sobbing.

"You will know what you did to me, Isthalla," he stood over me. I stared, shaking and wide-eyed, at the space between his boots. I tried grasping the edges, begging for mercy.

"Please, Cullen-" I begged. "_D-Don't_..." He slapped my hands away and shoved me hard into the ground, falling to his knees. Panic was overtaking my chest, filling my lungs with a dry suffocation that left me choking for air. I sobbed and screamed, trying to form the words to tell him to stop. I could not find my voice. I could feel the sensation of my body leaving me again, rendering me helpless; frozen and terrified. Weak.

_Please, don't.._

I could already feel the weight of his body pressing against me, hungry and violent. I squeezed my eyes shut and tightened my fists, praying to the Maker to stop this. Praying to Andraste, to _anything_ that would listen.

_Someone save me, please.._

"You stole everything from me," he growled into my ear. I withered under the heat of his breath, recoiling my body under the weight of his. I tried struggling again, but found my body no longer responded. He dug his claws into my neck, burying fangs into the flesh of my throat. I screamed in pain, then resumed sobbing as he began yanking up the skirt of my gown and forcing my legs apart.

_No, Maker NO please not like this-_

I screamed under his grasp until my throat went dry and numb, feeling the cold grip of his hands as he tilted my head to the side and put his lips to my ear.

"You will know my pain. I shall take _everything_ from you now, _my love_.."


	31. Hate Breed

Shallow, ragged whispers of breath echoing in my mind. I listened to the dying color of my heartbeat. My vision was foggy; the world around me shifting. Out of the blackness I saw my fingertips, stained with blood - my blood - trembling on the dirt. In my numb haze, I felt the weight of his body lift from me. I was spent - like a useless rag wasted and dirtied upon the earth. The sound of his belt clasp buckling over felt like sharp needles on my ears. I shut my eyes, trying to breath. Trying to focus.

_Weak…_

Empty tears spread across my face. I no longer had the strength to sob, or to scream. I could feel nothing. The sound of my own withering breath filled my mind, my heart, and my chest. Barely-there breathing that left me on the fringes, wondering if I should just stop. If I should give up.

_Stand up._

Though my mind demanded obedience, I could not suffer movement. I could not will myself to try. I lay there on the ground, limp, useless, and bleeding - staring at the pool of blood collecting beneath me.

_Stand up._

My body moved, just slight. I watched my fingertips twitch on the ground. A spark of life threaded through my body like molten fire. It hurt, and made me wince. I coughed up blood, further stirring the dust beneath me. I could hear the dull sound of his footsteps leading away in the back of my mind.

_Stand up._

The further he walked away, the more life I felt breathing back into my lungs. I took in a thick, though uneven breath, and forced my shaking hands under me.

A new life began to pulse within my broken mind - that of force, of penetrative _need_ and desire. I was filled with a great fire that burned in the pit of my stomach, stirring the acid and bubbling hate up to the surface of my chest.

A slow snarl began to form on my lips. Each breath brought me closer to the surface, bursting with a fire burning just beneath the cracked stone. I felt the earth beneath me shifting; the weight of my palms embedding deep into the dirt. I shook with a monstrous, growing lust for this new life, this _burning_ that pushed me back to the edge.

_Stand up._

My rage began to consume me. No thought of mercy or humanity crossed my mind. All I could focus on was the _hate_ of his hands, stained with my blood. Stained with sin. Enraged tears flooded my eyes as I forced my broken, bleeding, tainted limbs beneath me and forced the stained earth away.

I stood to my feet.

I said nothing; I made no move to approach him. I saw him take one more step, then two, and he slowly turned to me with an expectant smile in his eyes. The expression fell completely from his features when he stood to face me. No sympathy. No humanity.

_No mercy._

I took the dagger from the ground, feeling the heat of the blood rising around my body in a weightless dance. I felt a great, encompassing power I had never experienced before - a violent, fiery control that sent me off the edge of madness and euphoria. I was blissful; I was mad.

I was _ready._

A snarl pulled across my lips until I was baring a fully fanged smile at him. I saw the fear in his eyes - the unexpected hesitation as he began to take a step away. I drank in that expression; the same he had produced from me. My hand tilted over, palm up, as I let the dagger float weightlessly in my hands. I tipped my head to the side.

"You're not the only one who can have fun, darling," I chuckled in a voice belonging to another creature and another time. The words burst from me in an exhilaration of reverence and pleasure. I grinned again, wickedly, before snapping my hand back around and slamming his body into the ground.

My steps were slow and leisurely as I made my way over to his body, still twisted and frozen to the earth. He groaned and tried to turn and face me. I twisted my hand around again, and his body instinctively obeyed. The satisfying sound of snapping bones filled the air, as did his screams.

"I love the way you lie," I whispered, breathing deep in through my nose of the fresh scent of his blood mingling with mine. I effortlessly moved my hair through the air as I circled around him, creating a symphony from his snapping bones and shouts of pain.

"My, you are a strong one," I laughed as I stopped again around his front and knelt down. I ran an index through the pool of blood now collecting under his throat where I had churned and tore open the flesh of his stomach. He was twitching and burbling in his own filth, trying to speak. The whites of his eyes were shifting again to black. I pressed the tainted fingertip stained with his blood to my mouth, savoring the bitter flavor of a demon's life.

"His form will not save you, demon," I laughed before standing back to my feet. He looked up at me once more, the rise and fall of his chest quickening with each new breath, and finally shifted back to his true form. I grinned.

"Release me," the creature hissed.

I twisted my hand around, tensing my palm into a vicious claw. He reacted with a shrill screech of pain as the sound of his final bones cracking and snapping twisted him over again. My lips pulled into a snarl.

"I'm not done with you," I growled, the pleasure of my hate creeping up my bones and warming my body. I reveled in the searing, blissful heat of my blood being drawn from the wound, using it against him. I felt empowered by the gesture, even ironically justified. I breathed deep through my chest, letting the blade lower into my palm. Grabbing it with my other hand, I released the demon from my power to grip the cold steel of my weapon. He groaned with the thud of his mangled body hitting the ground. As I twisted the knife deep into the flesh of my palm, I winced and turned back to him.

"I said I wasn't done," I snarled, shoving my foot into his back before he could crawl away. He shrieked and fell to the ground again, his weight overcoming the strength of his broken arms. He fell back into a pool of his own rotting corpse, of flesh and blood and stinking entrails dragging beneath him. "I didn't know demons could bleed so beautifully," I laughed as an afterthought while watching him again try to crawl away from me. I yanked the blade from my palm, slightly wincing again, before raising it to the demon. He froze to his spot.

"I wish to return the courtesy," I smiled before dragging his body from the ground and lifting it into the air in front of me. The torn bits of flesh and black blood floated about him, as did the remnants of his insides still torn from his stomach.

"You look like a darkspawn," I commented before waving my hand and commanding the dagger to slice across the front of his chest. The creature shrieked again as the new wound bubbled with fresh, tainted blood and spread down his chest. He tried again to put up a pitiful illusion, this time of Alistair. Though the wounds remained, he turned the eyes of the half-guilty man to try and will me out of this torture. I grinned.

"All the more reason for me to tear you apart," I seethed before making a jerking motion with my arms and, in turn, watching the satisfying sight of his own arms being torn off. He shrieked and squalled in his false man-form before abruptly returning to his own body, now hanging in the air as a useless, armless, bleeding corpse. Stupid creature. I continued to let the dagger tear over his body until I was certain he had been hacked and torn into small, black hunks of tainted meat on the ground. He was long dead before I finished, but the thrill had not left me until the largest part left of his carcass was no larger than my dagger.

When it finally stopped, I dropped the dagger from my hand and stared down at the massacre at my feet. My breath had become heavy and ragged once more, and the burning in my chest overwhelming. It felt as if a veil was slowly thinning in my eyes as I looked about me, my foggy mind clearing, and absorbed the scene before me. I had not killed the creature; I had torn him, piece by piece, until nothing was left. I had destroyed him, mangled him, tortured him, and maimed him until there was nothing left. I stared down at the pieces left, my eyes clearing, and took in another shuddering breath.

_Well done…_

Her voice returned, as did her form as she appeared before me in a wall of smoke and shadow. A grin tipped her wicked purple lips as she leaned down and took back her dagger, pressing admiring fingertips to the blood-tainted blade.

"Well done, my darling.." she smiled. My heart was calming once more as I gripped my fists at my side and stared her down, mind now cleared.

"Take me to him," I ordered.

She smiled at me, and nodded.

_As you wish, my pet…_


	32. The Justice of Hate

"_G-Goldanna?" _I murmured as a blur of shapes and light swirled into my vision. I forgot my own words in an instant, fumbling between a lost haze of distant memory and sobering sensation of cold stone beneath my face. I felt a padded foot shove me hard in the side. I groaned.

"Get up, you stupid oaf," her voice snapped me back to reality. Great, what a way to be awoken after a traumatizing experience. But was it traumatizing? I couldn't really remember anymore.

The others were coming to as well, Morrigan first, then Wynne. Isthalla was careful to help the old woman to her feet, but left both myself and Morrigan to our own devices. Such a chivalrous witch, wasn't she? Wincing, I pushed my stiff and sore body to a seated position and blinked, adjusting my eyes only to find the decapitated head of some horrible creature at my feet.

"_Maker's BLOOD!_" I yelped, scrambling to get away from the seeping skull. It was still smoking with an unseen attack, the hot blood spilling across the floor inches from where my face had just been. It took all my willpower not to vomit at the thought it might have gone in my mouth.

"Calm down, it's only a head," Isthalla spat rather irritably while helping Morrigan to her feet. For the moment, I ignored that she had, again, opted to intentionally leave me for last.

"Calm down, _calm down?_" I shrieked, gesturing to the hissing, seething mass of blood and guts and skull at my feet. "What is _that?_" I demanded, eyes wild and heart ready to explode out of my chest. I looked again at the horrible thing; it's eyes were now sightless, though filled with a dreadful evil that sent instant shivers up my spine. I choked as the overwhelming stink of it's foul blood filled my nostrils.

"H-How-" I stopped myself, now becoming slowly aware of fresh blood that surrounded us. These were not bodies that had been here when we entered - they were new. Creatures I did not recognize were littered across the chamber at twisted, mangled angles. Blood covered the entire floor, fresh and stinking blood that reeked in my nose. My expression crinkled.

"Oh, _augh_, what a stench-" I coughed while holding a sleeve to my face. I looked up to find Morrigan extending a frigid hand to me, and took it without a word. She grunted as I rolled to my feet and stood. "_Maker…_" I breathed as I took in the sight, then turned back to Isthalla.

"W-What-" I tried, but couldn't find the words.

There was a certain bitterness in her gaze, something I could not quite place that hadn't been there before. Her eyes were dull; expression empty. Yet I couldn't help but feel a sense of unnerving fear as she looked at me without a flicker of expression and said, "_I took care of it_." and moved on. My entire body was on edge.

"_I took care of it".. what does that mean?_

Tension gnawed at the back of my mind, accompanied by a quickly-adopted awareness of my surroundings as I stepped closer to Morrigan and placed a nervous hand on my sword belt. She let out a slightly annoyed _tsk_ and stepped ahead of me, putting me at the back of the line. I ignored her for the time, a newfound doubt gripping my chest as I stared after Isthalla, watching her become tense and rigid the closer we came to the chamber steps.

"Here." she announced as she stopped at a door. The rest of the party fell in step behind her, Wynne abruptly pulling her staff from over her shoulder.

"I sense a dark energy behind this door.." she murmured, turning warning eyes to the rest of us standing behind, blankly waiting for orders. I could see Morrigan visibly tensing as well. Isthalla stood at front, and although at attention - I saw a sudden shift of panic overtake her as muffled noise came from the other side of the door.

Before anyone could stop her, she burst through the door - dropping her staff - and sprinted into the room.

"Isthalla!" Morrigan started after her, jolting me into movement as we streaked after the blasted, absolutely _insane_ woman.

"She's lost her mind!" I shrieked as we rounded the corner, all coming to a dead halt as we witnessed the source of her panic. Isthalla stood frozen, her expression petrified and full of shock as she looked upon what appeared to be a magical field that reached the ceiling. I looked up, finding no opening, before returning my gaze to her. Something didn't feel right-

"_C-Cullen?_" she choked out in a voice I didn't recognize. Something told me I should know that name, but no spark of memory threaded through my subconscious. Instead, I turned dumb and blind eyes to where she had her entire attention locked. There, in the middle of the magical prison crouched a templar splattered in blood, his head tucked and armored hands shakily pressed together in prayer.

"Isth-" I started, but a cold and unusually brisk hand from Morrigan jerked me back without a sound and shot me a wild look of fear. I fell silent, completely bewildered, and returned my gaze to the strange scene. Wynne hadn't said a single word, yet I could feel my nerves on edge. I swallowed the tension in my throat, waiting for someone to _say _something - _anything_.

"Maker _help me_," the man croaked. He was fervent, lost in a crazed hysteria as he recited incoherent mumblings over and over into his shaking hands. I could see the blood staining his armor - none that was his - and briefly caught the wildly terrified gaze of the man before it ducked back into prison of his arms with newfound fear. Recognition finally connected in my mind as I remembered the man that the demon had showed me.

_Cullen, the templar._

He moaned, a painful and shocking sound, and began to rock back and forth. "How _far_ they must have delved into my thoughts," he cried, his voice beginning to crack again as the hysteria overwhelmed him. "Tempting me with the _one thing_ I always wanted-" he groaned again, struggling for control, "b-but could never… _have_." He labored for breath, trying to withhold whatever private feelings he battled with. "Using my _shame _against me, my ill-advised _infatuation _with a mage!" He looked again, and this time I knew who he was watching - I _knew_ who he meant - and I felt a sudden knot in my throat. He immediately returned to the safety of his clasped hands.

"You _broke_ the others," he sobbed, "but I _will _stay strong, f-for my sake.. for _theirs_!"

Maker, he was _crying_. I felt like I shouldn't be here, like I was walking into a far-too private and shameful moment between them both. Despite my burning cheeks and burrow filling my throat, I stayed to my spot, glancing in shock from Isthalla to the faceless templar I remembered from the demon's visions. A knowing, guilty look filled Morrigan's face as she pressed her lips together and kept a tight hand on my shoulder, preventing me from intervening. _It was starting to make sense._

I turned aghast eyes back to her as I saw Isthalla fall to her knees, _tears _in her eyes.

_Maker's blood-_

"I'm so tired of these _tricks_, t-these _games_-" he continued on, choking on his own breath as he tried to hold back another wave of sobs. He leaned forward into his hands, quietly collecting his breath, and broke back in with another cry. "_Please_," he begged. "If _anything_ left in you is human, _kill me _now!"

His shout filled the hall with terrifying weight. He said no more after that, recoiling back into his arms to stifle his sobs. I felt so utterly lost and injured by the sight, unsure of what to do or how to react. An instinctive sensation twisted in my chest, one I couldn't place. I wanted to _help_ him, the poor man was suffering so terribly… Yet _why_- My mind begged the question. I turned my disbelieving eyes to the source of his hurt, the bitter elf and vengeful witch Warden crouched in front of him like a terrified child, the tears still shining in her eyes.

_What did you do?_

I wanted to be _angry_ with her, though I didn't know why. I didn't know what she had done. This was the same man shown to me by the demon, yet I felt a certain uneasy and tempered sadness over the way they were _looking_ at one another. He'd finally broken from the prison of his arms to raise reddened, bleary eyes to look at her face. He looked stunned, then confused as she began reaching out a shaking hand for him, and suddenly recoiled with a shout before jumping to his feet.

"_NO!" _he snarled. I watched Isthalla respond in shock from the sound, then slowly get to her feet as well. Injury filled her expression as she looked upon him in terror and found a hate burning in his eyes.

"Get back, _all of you!"_ he warned, raising out a shaken, bloodied hand to us all. I stepped back on instinct with my hand now testing the edge of my belt, yet Isthalla stayed rooted to her spot. Morrigan passed a look of worry to me, which I returned with a nod. I adjusted my hand to the hilt of my blade. My jaw ticked.

"Demon, I will _not listen to you! I said GET BACK!" _he shouted. Isthalla was on the verge of stepping through the barricade - I began to go after her in alarm - and instead witnessed Isthalla stopped by Wynne's hand.

"Isthalla, _no_-" she warned in a heavy, serious voice. I wondered if she was considering not listening as I watched an expression of unbridled, wild anger flash in her eyes before she turned back to Cullen in despair.

"C-Cullen, it's _me_," she whispered again in that completely foreign tone that knotted up my throat. My heart jumped at the sound, and stomach twisted slightly. I wasn't sure why. "_P-Please_," she added, though she didn't move per Wynne's insistent, gripping hand on her arm.

I was not used to the fear in her voice, that unbidden, child-like softness that sounded _nothing_ like the intimidating elf witch I knew and loathed. I didn't like it; it made me feel uncomfortable and squirmy. I wanted to leave.

"Still here," he murmured to himself breathlessly, razed with insanity, and eyes searching. His eyes clouded over with confusion. "B-But that always worked before!" He was searching for answers, now uprooted by an entirely new fear I had not figured out.

_He must think we're an illusion.._

I ticked my jaw at the memory just a half-hour earlier of the demon forcing me to look upon the private emotions of the Warden I'd believed to be as hard and cold inside as on the outside. I hated seeing that weakness now, and _hearing_ it in her voice now, _Maker's breath,_ of all things. It was unsettling as it was unnerving. I didn't like seeing her in such a personal and painful light.

"He's exhausted, Isthalla… I don't know how long he's been in this state," Wynne murmured.

"I'm _here_ now, you're _safe_," Isthalla croaked, turning to the templar. I looked away, wanting to watch _anything_ else. This was too much. I felt anger budding in my chest, but knew it to be misplaced. I had nowhere to put it, only confusing, swirling emotions that were fighting to the surface at the worst time.

"_NO_, get _AWAY from me, you MONSTER!" _he snarled. I whipped my gaze back to find Isthalla stumbling away, retracting a petrified hand to her chest. She had tried to reach out to him again. Now I saw the tears springing in her eyes once more, glistening and raw. Wynne clutched her by the shoulders.

"That is _enough!_" she barked. "Now, Cullen," she turned to him, "We have come to _help, _and if you will not cooperate we shall continue on _without _you. Where are the others?"

Sometimes Wynne could be a frightfully good negotiator.

The templar seemed to regard this threat, and straightened back into his armor with a bitter frown on his lips, no longer looking at Isthalla.

"Why _bother_, as you can see they've done enough damage already," he sneered at the old woman. Wynne paused for a moment, calculating his words, before setting Isthalla to the side - who still hadn't said a word - and stepped up as close to the magic prison as she could.

"Now you _listen to me_, Cullen," she pointed a rigid finger at him. "This was our _home_, and anyone left still alive is _worth saving_! I would have thought _you_ of all people would agree." She sized him up, then stepped back. "Sadly, I was mistaken," she added with bitter afterthought.

"And _look _what they've done to it!" he shouted, throwing his arms in the air. I turned to glance at the walls, which were covered in the same pulsing flesh I'd seen devouring the mage-girl. I was revolted by the sight. "They caged us like _animals_, found ways t-to.. _break _us," he paused, lingering on a private memory - a _nightmare - _and continued, "I'm the only one _left_." Anger overtook him again.

"They _deserve to die!_ Uldred most of all!"

A sharp, familiar pain struck my chest as I realized what he'd just done.

Isthalla came storming forward once again, full of a fury ablaze as I'd never seen. Wild anger gripped her snarl as she stepped right in front of Wynne and flung her arm out at him, spitting fire.

"How _could you_, Cullen!" she screamed, gripping the fabric of her robes with the ferocity I'd witnessed earlier. Tears were springing in her eyes, and mouth contorting into a pain I hadn't seen before from her. She choked on her breath, unwilling to yield such overwhelming emotions, and stepped back to try and collect herself. The damage had been done. I saw the tears slip down her face, quickly wiped away with a shaking hand as she looked at the stone floor and shook her head in quiet fury. "I _trusted you_," she murmured with such bitter hate I felt the wound in her voice clench my chest.

Her display had not phased him, had not even so much as ruptured him as it had the rest of us. I was as visibly shaken as Morrigan, to be sure, as we witnessed the sight of her anger, her fear, and many other theorized emotions bursting from the seams of her lips and in sobs for breath. Maker, Isthalla was actually _crying. _

The man I remembered from the visions, the same templar I saw look at her in a way I didn't think possible, looked as indifferent as a stone statue before her. His expression darkened just slightly, and his lips pulled as he stared past her - _through _her, even - and spoke to the weight of the empty room instead.

"You must kill _everyone_ up there," he growled in a strict and controlled voice prior unheard. He was shutting down, turning into the wall of stone templar I remembered so well as a child in the Chantry. The Revered Mother always said it was both a granted strength and terrible weakness for the templars; and could easily wound those with gentle hearts, if they weren't careful. My throat felt dry and bitter knowing this was the first time I'd actually seen it happen, and at the hands of my leader.

In that next instant, Isthalla exploded from whatever invisible chains that had been holding her back.

"_I WILL NOT HARM THEM FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR ANGER!"_

The vindictiveness, the _hate _in her voice sent my hair standing on edge, and my nerves completely throttled as I stepped back, physically shaken, and watched a light glow beginning to engulf her. My heart skipped a beat in alarm as their voices escalated to terrifying shouts at one another, all the while that same, alarming glow growing brighter with each second Isthalla's anger rose.

"I'M _SAVING _THEM!" he snarled back.

"_NO!" _she yelled, jumping forward, all teeth and claws, and backed him down by the sheer willpower of her gaze. He recoiled with a snarl. Her lips pulled into a disgusted frown.

"You would _murder_ them, you disgusting _coward_," she shook with intensity, her white-knuckled grip twisting into her robes with restrained force. I took a slow, nervous step away as I saw a different glow beginning to fill her hands. She was ready to fight him - and I wasn't looking forward to being within a mile's distance when it happened.

"And you would have me _murder _them, to ease your conscious?" she spat, her lips twisting back into a snarl as she regarded him with a shake of her head and fiery glare.

"_Pathetic."_

Just when I expected all hell to break lose, again I watched as Wynne bravely stepped between the two, now _livid _with her own anger; between Isthalla's spitting fury and the templar's shaken rage, I hadn't noticed. I suppose I'd been to busy watching the fire ready to explode from the Isthalla's burning hands. As if a natural ailment to their wounds, the glow faded from Isthalla's body the moment Wynne stepped between the two. I felt the breath rush out of my lungs with a great sigh of relief.

"Enough," Wynne spoke. Though even, I could hear the quiet temper in her voice that left no room for arguing. She looked between them both, her hands raised in questioning, waiting to see if they would go against her authority. Satisfied, she dropped her hands at her side and turned to the templar - Cullen.

"This is a discussion for _another time_," she chided them both in a low and forceful tone. Isthalla still refused to look at him. Her hands were back at her side, gripped and shaking, though no longer lit with vengeful magic.

Morrigan, to my surprise, stepped forward and placed a quiet hand on Isthalla's shoulder. I half-expected her to turn on instinct and plunge her fist into the woman's face, but instead she only bristled.

"We must make haste, Isthalla…" she murmured to the angry, shaking Warden. I glanced once more to Cullen and saw his hateful eyes boring into Wynne. We resumed our journey as Wynne filed behind Isthalla, who had wordlessly turned and headed for the upstairs chamber. As we rounded up the stone staircase, he left us with a bitter prayer that sounded more like a grim boding of death. It made my skin crawl.

"Maker turn his gaze on you.." he recited in a dull, flat voice full of bitter contempt. I glanced down at him, still following closely behind the others as we climbed to the top of the stairs. He stared at the floor.

"..And pray that you haven't doomed us all," he finished. I saw something flicker in his gaze as the doors swung open and Isthalla - at front - stepped inside without a word. I could have sworn it was fear.

Or regret.

_Maker save us.._

I shut my eyes as we entered into the chamber and heard the barrage of fresh screams ringing through my ears.

_Maker watch over us._


	33. Witchy Makeover

A part of me had hoped she would snap out of it once back at camp when she had a moment to absorb what had happened, but she remained suspended in an uneasy quiet that I knew not to be normal. I was not one to pry - truthfully, I hated it whenever Alistair or Wynne insisted on prodding _me_ endlessly like children poking a dead thing with a stick. This was not one of those instances, though. Something had disturbed her.

Alistair caught my expectant glance, and jerked away as if I'd infected him with the Blight.

"_What?_" he demanded in a too-defensive voice. Honestly, the man was an _idiot_ sometimes. I sighed.

"Do you not see a problem?" I expressed quite irritably while gesturing a flat hand towards the camp. He followed my gesture, dumbly, to where Isthalla crouched by a fire far-off alone on the edge of camp, her knees pulled up to her chest. He tilted his head in fascination to this spectacle, then turned back to me.

"So she's sitting by a fire..?" he said to me as if I were stupid. A quick smack to his arm and he corrected himself after a yelp of pain.

"_OW!_ Well _that_ was unnecessary-" he paused, absorbed my glowering expression, then made a small noise in his throat. He shrugged. "So she's gone and had a little witchy fit, what do you want _me_ to do?"

Another threat of my extended hand and he cringed, holding up his hands in surrender.

"All right, _fine_," he pouted. "But don't be surprised if she sends me off with lightning biting my heels!"

I watched the oaf blunder straight over to Isthalla, tactlessly, and attempt to sit down. A jerk of her head told me he would not be granted that pleasure as he raised his hands in familiar surrender and involuntarily opted to stand. The rest was simply an interesting transpire of Alistair shifting from one foot to the other, gesturing with his hand, and then somehow managing to rupture Isthalla from her cocoon and into a fit of slurred screams.

A few moments later the idiot was sprinting back in my direction, narrowly dodging a fire spell after his feet. I waited for him to catch his breath and spout his needless discrepancies and complaints over the matter, then when he finally calmed down enough to talk again - stood up and crossed his arms.

"Enlighten me how that was supposed to _work_, Morrigan?" he spat rather haughtily in my direction. I crossed my arms in combat and raised my brow, snorting.

"I never said your blundering, _oafish_ approach would manage to work," I corrected with a slight laugh.

"Then _why_ did I just do that?" he demanded, his voice pitching even higher. Honestly, the man squalled like a female when he was even slightly upset. I had to withhold a grin.

"Well I certainly wasn't going to be the one to have a fire spell blasted up my skirt," I shrugged nonchalantly. This produced a bit of dumbfoundment from Alistair, then incredulity when he realized what he'd done - or failed to do, rather.

"_OH-_ Well that's just-…." he paused, shaking his fists in an attempt to conjure the right insult. "T-That's just _mean_!" he settled on with a sad puppy-frown. I grinned.

"'Tis not my fault you carry the emotional capacity of a teaspoon, Alistair," I commented with a wave of my hand. This managed to get under his skin. He stood there, dumb and mouth hanging open, before finally making a mutter of frustration and stalking off.

He managed to make a stumble towards the forest before awkwardly turning around and stalking right past me again.

"I am going to my tent," he announced rather importantly before dramatically jerking his tent-flap open and pulling it shut behind him.

"Oh you poor _baby_," I pouted after him, curt smile on my lips. He yelled a rather high-pitched _shut up_ at me through his tent, though the words were muffled as I turned my attention back to Isthalla. She had since resumed her position curled within her knees, eyes distinctly focused on the fire. I took a deep breath in to prepare myself, and strolled over.

"You can tell Alistair if he comes within five feet of me again, I won't miss a second time," she growled. I perked.

"I'll be sure to make note of it."

A quick glance told me she would grant me more tolerance than my oafish predecessor, and took a quiet seat on the log behind her. She'd opted to sit on the ground since Alistair's shrieking departure, and stayed there, arms locked tightly around her legs.

Silence stretched between us for a long moment, partially from my lack of knowledge on how to approach these things, and largely from her lack of wanting to speak to anyone. I had even witnessed Sten, to my surprise, make a small attempt at speaking with her. Though he only exchanged what looked like a few words, and she in return, before nodding and walking off. Clearly he wasn't a creature for interrogations. A thankful trait.

"About the tower today-" I started.

"I don't want to talk about it," she cut in. Now it was my turn to get exasperated. I sighed loud enough for her to hear - in which she shot me a vicious glare - and rolled my eyes.

"Truly, it will do you _no good _to bottle it all up until you decide to do something stupid or reckless like throwing yourself into a pit of darkspawn!" I chided her rather wearily. Rather than come to a conclusion of enlightenment, she burst into a startling uproar of laughter.

"That'd actually be fantastic right now," she barked after a pause. I blinked in my surprise, then slowly sunk into my shoulders with a small snort.

"Found that funny, did you?" She nodded, offering me a tired smile and red eyes. My gaze traveled to the half-empty bottle in her hand, and it was only then I became aware of the smell of alcohol that soured the air.

"Ah, I see you have already found your good friends," I nodded in mild amusement. She leaned back a bit too far, then swayed rather lazily the other way, the bottle clutched in her hand.

"A bitter friend," she corrected. I nodded, not looking to dispute the reasoning of a drunken and temperamental witch.

"You wouldn't have a tale to tell your friend, would you?" I eased back into the conversation, hoping to find an open door. Her expression faded to that of darkness. She frowned deeply, her mouth pulling taut of bitter memory.

"Nothing you don't already know, Morrigan," she murmured. With a tilt of her head, she downed the rest of the bottle with a gasp, throwing it across the fire into the shallow darkness. Concern flitted across my face.

"I see.."

More silence, filled with weight and anger that suffocated the air around her. It stretched on long enough that I began to feel uncomfortable, and was considering the idea of simply leaving her to her own devices when she abruptly spoke up.

"You know, I was told very often how smart and bright of a student I was-" she said in a peculiarly animated voice, her finger pointedly tapping the air for emphasis. She squinted her eyes after this, trying to remember the rest of her thought. Her finger tapped the air, trying to find the end of the statement. "Irving himself was my teacher - said I could be handled by none less!" She roared back with a guffaw at this statement, snorting a laugh. I still had not understood the importance.

"_Handle!"_ she repeated with a shriek, her expression turning from amusement to slight disdain. "As if I am some _animal_ to be _trained!_" she hollered. Now anger crept into her voice, and an all-familiar pressure built around her body, calling forth the Veil. I placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. She flipped around, eyes wild.

"_Isthalla_-" I spoke gently but assuredly, and after another brief gaze of mistrust she relaxed. I frowned. "I am certain the First Enchanter did not see it that way," I tried to ease her conscious. I almost hoped she was leaning towards sanity for a moment, but instead of relief, her expression filled with more determined confusion.

"No," she grunted, pulling her arm away from me to cocoon herself alone by the fire, back turned. Her arms hung limply over her knees, and her body swayed in the slightest. How much did it take to get an elf drunk, I wondered? Fleeting concern rippled through my mind as I watched her sink into her skin, staring deeply into the bowels of the fire embers. "_No_," she repeated again, this time much quieter. "Irving was a good man."

Something I had never heard spoken from Isthalla Surana was a compliment. There was such a tone of respect in her voice, I felt unearthed by it - expected an equalizing bout of fury quickly to follow such a statement. However, when none came, I was surprised to find that tears had found their way back into her eyes. She curled her head further into her knees.

"He put more faith in me than I could say for anyone else…"

Her voice steadily grew quieter and more sincere, a tone of honesty I was hardly used to. Though the sting of the alcohol was sharp and permeated the air, I sensed her words were genuine. She respected that man greatly.

"It was my arrogance that stole his trust," she mumbled, her voice now returning to the bitter remnants it was before. "I thought I was untouchable, and I suffered greatly for it…" she whispered, her eyes falling lower, "as did those around me."

And now I knew who she was talking about. I quietly cleared my throat and sat forward, careful to watch her posture this time as I touched her shoulder. She winced, but did not narrow her eyes at me. I pressed my mouth together and leaned back in hopes I could say the right thing.

"He was a very dear friend to you, wasn't he?" I asked. After a pause of consideration, she slowly nodded. Her eyes darted shamefully back to the dirt again. If I didn't know any better, it would seem she was embarrassed by the admittance. She said nothing, so I tried to speak in her stead.

"Though I would not exactly say a templar is the best choice of company for our kind-" I started in lightly, then paused when I saw the slightly pained expression in her face. I faltered.

"He cared for you, that much I could see," I finished weakly, knitting my brow together. I hadn't lied. Truly, despite the anger that bloomed between them in that terrible place when they reunited, he would not have bothered asking his chosen god to watch over her if he did not care. It seemed an important kindness from one such as templar, if not something more I dared to think. She seemed unconvinced by my revelation, though stirred by it.

"I never told you what I did to him," she whispered. I blinked and wondered if she had confused her memory.

"You told me of the details of dreams you had experienced, and his unfortunate involvement in such events," I recounted with a wind of my finger. "And also the instance across your tower grounds that had you-" I paused, not wanting to upset her with certain words.

"…_monitored_ for the remainder of time you were there," I finished, uncertain. Unease settled in my stomach as I recalled in the return to the tower how she had admitted a very vital and dangerous truth she had hidden regarding her eviction. The spirits.

"_No_, Morrigan," her voice was dry and brittle now, and I feared she would fall into another bout of tears. She did not. She swallowed her throat painfully and uncurled her knees to spread out flat on the dirt, palms pressed against the earth. "How I managed to release myself and the others from the dreamscape of the demon."

"You never did explain that…" I noted a bit curiously. She looked uncomfortable, and made a point to start shifting continuously in her seat, before finally relinquishing the ground and heaving herself up to sit beside me on the log with an uncertain frown.

"The spirit that followed and spoke to me," she said, "was the same, I believe, that attacked Alistair." A knot now formed in my throat, and my skin prickled.

"_What_?" I asked in horror. She did not offer me a glance, though I felt abused by her privilege. Angry, even. I clenched my jaw, holding back my resentment with her behavior, and waited for her to continue.

"She appeared to me in the demon's dreamscape as well," she said pointedly. I could not hold back my bursting frustration.

"And how did you know she, too, was not a demon?" I barked incredulously, furious with her for being so naïve at such a dangerous moment.

_Isthalla, how could you be so foolish?_

Though my swelling emotions wished to say it, I kept the outburst to myself by pressing taut lips tightly together and clenching my jaw. I would not treat her stupidly, not as I did Alistair or some others. She was certainly not stupid. Perhaps it was my reason for such anger; she was not herself.

"I-I don't," she answered honestly, though timidly. Again, my trust was faltering. Frustration gave way to concern as I let out a weak sigh and folded my hands over my lap.

I glanced sidelong at my troubled companion, and found weakness in her eyes. Doubt and guilt traced her frown. She was sick with worry.

_For a templar, no less.._

I sighed and decided to push my judgment aside, and instead console the wounded creature beside me. She had done far more for me on late, sleepless nights in camp when I had consoled her about my mother. Grudgingly, I had owed her that respect at first - for deeming me useful enough to bring along.

I hadn't liked her. I had despised her for being the conspirator in Mother's plans. Now, I found that I pitied the proud creature Alistair had decidedly adopted as the leader of this strange group. Though broken, she had spirit in her. She was not the mindless sheep I had expected to be a tower-bred brat, unknowing and unwilling to immerse into the world. She was fearless and, yes, reckless. Though myself as did many of the others believed this to be a trait of power, rather than a weakness. She led with a brazen fire unmatched by her peers, and it was in that trait I realized the potential both First Enchanter Irving and Mother must have seen, and possibly the man named Duncan that Alistair spoke so often of.

She was a woman of a like mind, and of intelligence. She had proven that enough to me. In my revelation and release of begrudging loyalty, I had found a friend. Though brief the memory would be, I sought comfort in the presence of a mage much like myself. She didn't seem to mind the company either, social creature that she was.

Presently, she was as a wounded bird looking to fix a broken wing. One cannot repair a wound without bandaging. I contemplated long and hard on a reason and way to heal such a wound, and finally came up with a brilliant answer as I watched Wynne pass across camp, carrying some of the dressing gowns the tower had sent with her. Since the tower's attack either leaving most dead or sent away to other towers during repair, they no longer needed the robes.

"Well, I for one am certainly tired of all this moping about," I struck up in a bright, interested tone. Isthalla, who had somehow assumed me invisible, nearly jumped out of her skin and turned to look at me with wide, bewildered eyes. I grinned, slipping my hand around her arm. "You know what I think?" I asked, standing to my feet and dragging her with me. She blinked, still startled, and shook her head.

"I believe it is in our best interest to make that oaf templar regret his every word," I said charmingly. A look of pure fear flitted across her features.

"Morrigan, I don't want to hurt h-" she started, and I quickly found her misplaced fear and cut her off with a blink of surprise.

"_Oh_, of course not _that_," I chided needlessly while dragging her towards my tent. She tried batting my hand away fruitlessly for a moment before finally relenting and stumbling after me towards our tent encampment on the edge of the woods. Though at the entrance she stopped and dug in her heels, looking slightly alarmed.

"What exactly do you have in mind?" she asked, the sharpness returning to her mind. She recovered quickly. I flashed her a brief but meaningful smile before rummaging around in the crate that Wynne had placed outside our camp, and pulled out a slightly dusty robe outfitted in exotic furs and a draping neckline. Isthalla blinked and stared at the thing like a dead animal, completely perplexed.

"Like I said," I continued, ushering her into the open two-sided tent to pull up a crude wooden stool for her to sit on, "we are going to make him regret _every word_."

I think the realization finally hit her as I laid out the robes on my cot and began to dig through a satchel for my tools. She began to fidget nervously with her hair, before jumping when I snapped the utensils together and stood to my feet. Her eyes went wide.

"I've never cut my hair," she said with clear unease. I laughed, stepping up to her side and briefly sweeping my dark hair into a bun to stay out of my eyes.

"Oh hush, you look like a frightened child at the sight of these things," I snorted, chopping the scissors in the air in front of her. She was unsettled by the things, but said nothing more, and simply relented and shut her eyes.

"J-Just… _easy_," she asked as the last word, then finally relented to what Alistair later deemed as a "Witchy Makeover" the next day. How childish.


	34. The Assassin

I was beginning to be put at ill-ease by Alistair's constant glancing. Ever since that morning he had acted funny. Morrigan sensed my disturbance, and trotted up alongside me at the front of the line, leaning close so the others would not hear. Sten fell back a respectable few feet for privacy.

"I sense a certain puppy has taken a shining to you, Isthalla," she commented wryly. "The idiot cannot stop _staring _at your arse." Morrigan couldn't withhold a giggle at this observation, causing me to snort in agreement. She glanced back once at Alistair, who poked his head above the company - all the way in the back beside Leliana - and looked distraught over our smirks.

"Do you think it was the '_witchy makeover'_ you gave me?" I said, putting dramatic emphasis on the phrase Alistair had coined earlier that morning when Morrigan revealed my new look to the party. We both stole a glance once again at the puppy-man floundering in the back with curious, sad eyes bobbing over Sten's shoulder every now and then. Morrigan tried to suppress another snort, and cupped her hand closer when she noticed Wynne's pace increasing to try and overhear.

"I'm pretty certain he wishes to watch both in front and in back," she jested while nudging an elbow into my side. This ruptured an unexpected guffaw from my stomach as I clamped a hand over my mouth and felt my face burning hot.

"I certainly hope this giggling session is not at the expense of our poor friend Alistair?" Wynne appeared at my side, offering a sidelong glance of disapproval to both myself and Morrigan. Morrigan attempted to hide a snort when we both saw the slightly mischievous smirk flitting the old woman's face.

"No, Wynne, just over a puppy," I tried to say very seriously. I couldn't resist. Morrigan choked on another snort of laughter, forcing me to release the pent-up giggle I'd been holding back. Though we both probably looked like cackling children, I honestly didn't care. Perhaps it really was a "witchy" makeover. I felt clear-headed and sure of our path. We had saved Connor and now embarked on a quest to search for the Holy Ashes of Andraste herself. Though I wasn't the religious sort, the excuse to be up and moving on the road again and as far away from the Tower as possible had put me into good spirits. Morrigan had even offered me a nice remedy spell for a hangover earlier that morning.

"Very well," Wynne smiled dryly, falling back into the middle of the line where Alistair was quick to huddle beside her for information. Now I consciously waited for the signal; Alistair would nonchalantly cast a glance forward, drifting casually across to where I walked. Morrigan appointed herself to sentry duty, alerting me from the west side of the group just how often his eyes wandered.

By early afternoon, I felt a bit exposed by his watching. Unfamiliar feelings of embarrassment and self-consciousness fluttered in my stomach. Though I had no interest in the idiotic man, I couldn't help but feel a bit unusual wearing the Tevinter robes which exposed more skin than I had ever considered. I was not one to actively cover my body, though by Tower regulations we were banned from wearing the robes after a rather interesting incident regarding myself (of no direct responsibility, I swear) and some of the other girls who had imported some fine robes from the markets to wear. We'd worn the adornments to dinner that evening, and in the company of a surplus of new recruits to the ranks added ever since the disaster with Franklin and the bullfrog.

Though I along with my friend Anna were more than aware of what had happened, the templar recruits seemed to be under the impression that our new robes had somehow bewitched them into a shameful, and rather _hard_ predicament. Greagoir had been so outraged and humiliated by the entire experience he had all of the robes thrown into a crate and locked in storage. Ever since, we were forced to wear robes that covered both ankle, wrist, and collar at all times. Even the men.

Having the freedom to wear such robes again gave me a sense of confidence - revelation, even. I was no longer shackled; Greagoir, of whom I had expected to kill me upon re-entry of the Tower, had surprisingly agreed to my proposition, and held up his word to assist Redcliffe when we had returned to the first level with Irving slung over my shoulder.

No, I didn't want to think about that. It brought a cold-sick feeling in my gut that I didn't like. I promised myself I wouldn't think about the Tower anymore. I would move forward anew, just as Morrigan said I should. I looked the part, so I should act it.

We were beginning to clear out of the woods now and curving on a wide, open road arching through the low mountains. The skies were a brilliant blue, and the sun high overhead, warming the chilly earth from early-morning frost. I turned around and began to trot backwards, though slower - allowing Morrigan to lead - and faced Sten.

"Kadan," he addressed me courteously, a ghost of a smile on his face. I grinned.

"Sten, you never said what you think of my new look," I jested, pulling my lips back to bare a row of smiling teeth at him. He seemed surprised by this insinuation, but never wavered his gaze.

"It is not a _look_, but a simple alteration of a physical image," he corrected. "You are still the Grey Warden. Nothing has changed," he finished. A pause, and he wrinkled his face in the slightest. "Although slightly more _bouncy _on this day."

His blunt observations, though spoken in a very matter-of-fact tone, sounded incredibly amusing. I laughed and shook my head, hopping just in time to avoid a rock. I still faced him.

"If that is a compliment, then thank you," I said with a nod before turning back around.

I almost imagined he wanted to add that it wasn't, but instead murmur a simple yet imagined fondness of the familiar words: "As you wish, kadan.."

I fell into an amiable silence, and contented myself to listening to other conversations rising and falling with the others behind. Although Bodahn followed at some distance, both Wynne and Alistair had relented to falling behind to sit on the back of the cart and have a chat. Leliana had taken up pledge beside Sten, and incessantly chattered away at him over shoes and other girly things I knew he endured, though sometimes grew weary of. Today, he seemed tolerant of it, and even offered an occasional comment every now and then - although usually disapproving.

Morrigan was lost again in her own thoughts. I left her to her own devices, peculiarly watching her as she would trot ahead, straying off the path every now and then to inspect the shrubbery or watch for herbs. She was a curiously nervous woman for being raised in the wilds, though that was probably an admiring trait to have. To be dull and in the wilderness full of beasts and darkspawn was a dead man's wish.

She reminded me distinctly of a fox we once snuck into the tower. Though Anna had been a particularly gifted young elf with bewitching the wild, no amount of spells or incantation could calm the animal. We had naively wanted to keep the thing as a pet, as most smart children do. I remember it skittering about the dorm, tail bushy and raised, eyes wide and terrified. It would dart about the room in bouts of crazed claustrophobia, then relent to curling up in a corner, shaking, and yowl and hiss until we had to shut it up with a sleeping spell so the templars wouldn't hear. One day there was a inspection round, and we hid it in a crate in the cellars so they wouldn't find him.

I think we forgot to let him out.

Morrigan was busy filling a small pouch with some strange-looking roots when I noticed a distinct noise cutting its way through the distance. As it got closer, the muddied sound grew sharper, and I finally made out the sounds of a woman yelling in distress.

"Please, help!" she cried while stumbling around the corner. Everyone was on their guard in an instant. I heard the sharp sound of Sten's half-drawn sword, as well as the clambering footsteps of Alistair and Wynne rejoining the group. The woman seemed startled by the hostility, and fell to a half-trot as she came closer, her eyes giving way to hesitation.

I raised my hand when I saw no visible weapon, though kept my hand trained in case she was a mage like Morrigan and myself. Her eyes darted to Sten, disbelieving, then back to me when the others finally relinquished and sheathed their weapons. My brow knitted together.

"What's wrong?" I asked tentatively. My question seemed to jog her memory as she mechanically broke back into a sob of distress and pointed back down the road, shaking in terror.

"Bandits! Help, please! They've attacked my father's caravan-" she was stumbling so much over her words it took a few tries to get the entire explanation out. I stopped her before she could finish.

"Show us."

Only a few steps into the journey, she let out an abrupt squall of pain and fell, breathless, onto the ground. A nervous twinge twisted in my gut. We moved forward, and I knelt beside the woman to check her pulse. Still breathing. Morrigan shot me a concerning look.

"Wynne," I called without looking up. She appeared at my side a moment later, not needing explanation.

"I will stay and watch over the girl; go help the others," she offered quietly while taking my place at the girl's side. I still felt uneased by the whole situation. My eyes fell to Sten.

"Sten, I need to you stay with Wynne, just in case," I flashed guarded, hardened eyes at him. He nodded in understanding.

"As you wish, Warden," he answered before stepping closer to Wynne. I motioned to Leliana, who moved back on instinct to Bodahn's cart. She began to guide the braying mules back around a cluster of trees for safety, leaving just myself, Morrigan, and Alistair.

"What if there's darkspawn?" Alistair yelped in fear when we saw fire beginning to curl over the low hill ahead. My eyes narrowed - Morrigan felt it, too.

"It's not darkspawn, Alistair," I murmured over my shoulder as we moved to a cluster of boulders. "We would _both_ be able to sense them," I reminded him with a grating tone. He sniffed, stepping behind a tree adjacent to me.

"Then why are we sitting here hiding?" he demanded. "Her father could be hurt! Do you not see the fire?" I could sense the tension building from him, but ignored it. I tried focusing hard past the roar of the fire to listen, though my instincts had already told me what I needed to know. Morrigan felt the same - her silence enough agreed with me.

"Because this is an ambush, Alistair, not a rescue," she finally joined in. Alistair absorbed this new information, then finally sunk down against the trunk.

"Oh," was all he managed. He had learned at such a point in our journey that when either myself or Morrigan had a hunch in the wilds, it was usually correct. There was a point when he simply stopped disputing our proof and thus embarrassing himself.

I had managed to slip us, undiscovered, around the south circle of the ambush. However, I had not counted on the archers perched high above the orchestrated trap. In the center of the clearing burned the fabled cart. True, someone _had_ ambushed and lifted the cart goods. However, by the charred remains scattered around the cart, they had long since been relieved of suffering. Alistair made a disgusted noise in his throat and gagged. I felt Morrigan shift beside me to slap him on the arm for making so much noise, but it was too late. The archers had spotted me.

"_Move!_" I shouted at them both before jerking Alistair back in time to avoid one of the arrows. It pierced the bark of the tree. We burst from the bushes as startled animals, scattering in every direction to spread out our chances. I darted directly down the middle, whilst Alistair and Morrigan I imagined darted off in either direction to circle the camp. My first and instinctive rule I had always emphasized: take out the archers first.

I ducked into a roll before another arrow could catch me, then narrowly leaped over a collection of broken debris and rock meant to be a barricade to circle up the path. Perhaps the archers hadn't expected such a direct attack, or perhaps they were surprised it was coming from a mage. Either way, they were all frozen in a paralysis spell before having a chance to pull out their combat weapons.

The archers temporarily taken care of, I took the opportunity from my high stance to scope out the field. Bandits had materialized from the surrounding wood, and in the deep veins of my body I felt the anger boiling to the surface. Taken advantage of. Used.

_That woman will have wished her death by the time I'm done with her.._

I took advantage of the slope to single out attackers that swarmed both Morrigan and Alistair. From atop the overhang, I could see in the distance that Sten had abandoned Wynne to come storming towards the now-obvious fighting over the hill. However, I hadn't counted on a very strong and well-thronged barricade teeming with Mabari at the base on the other side of the hill where we had been expected to come in. The hounds rushed at Sten, and I was forced to turn my attention back to my companions on the field.

The most I could manage to do for them was strategically filter and control small crowds of the attackers. There were far too many; enough that my stomach twisted inside, telling me they had expected not only someone for their trap, but a someone very specific. The only enemy that came to mind outside of the Tower sent my blood into a violent chill, and heat creeping up my spine. My actions became less merciful, and my spells more vindictive. I began to attack with horror hexes, and entropy magic that Irving had bid me warning only to use in the case of a dire emergency.

Morrigan sent a mass electrocution spell onto the field when she became too overwhelmed. I wanted to yell, to warn her in time, but it was too late as I saw the lightning crackle overhead and touch the ground. In seconds it lit up, enflamed, and rose in specific lines all around the ground.

_Cowards, you knew we would fight you with magic.._

I saw Alistair fall across the field when the surprise of lit fire caused him to look away, briefly, to Morrigan. He was overwhelmed by his attackers and bashed across the head by one of their shields. Morrigan called out to him and began to rush across the field, only to be caught by a brief but painful paralysis herself as she crossed one of the mage's glyphs. Two still remained, as well as the group of bandits with swords standing over Alistair. Panic swept over me.

_What do I do?_

Mortality froze me to my spot. The archers had finally awoken, and I was forced to take a leap from the ledge. Though I attempted to roll and break my fall, it did not lessen the pain of impact. I grunted and rolled to my feet, narrowly jumping out of the way of the flames to face the two magi. They seemed only just aware of me in that moment, and quickly turned their magic on me instead.

I had used most of my strength to control the field, and now my power was waning. My body was physically spent, and I was certain I'd broken my still-healing ankle on the fall. Desperation tore at my throat as I drained the last of my spells in hysteria, shooting futile ice towards both them and the fires inching towards my companions.

It was then that I met eyes with the leader of these killers. He emerged from the smoke and fire as a beast from the hellfire of the Black City. His eyes were warm with the chill of death, and smile perched upon a deceptively charming face. He wore fine leather armor and jewelry. I saw the daggers braced in both hands, and knew then this was not a simple bandit. I screamed at him in my rage, furious he would deem it fair to deceive his prey in order to avoid fighting.

"You _coward_!" I screamed at him. Fury overtook me. I was blind, though in hindsight recalled Sten finally breaking through the barricade and straight towards the magi, followed shortly by both Wynne and Leliana. My eyes bore into the assassin.

My hand found its way to my dagger before I realized, and plunged into my palm. Amidst the roaring fire and smoke, the others did not see. Pain filled my body, then the warmth of power as it slipped out of my palm and into the air. I spread my palms towards the assassin, who had since witnessed my other companions joining the fight and found it a lost cause. He was turning to run.

My hands burned with revenge, my heart screamed for suffering. I was filled with an all-consuming rage that blinded my vision and hearing. No amount of shouts to stop kept me from rendering him helpless, twisting him into the air. I had broken his leg by the time I finally felt hands drag me back and filter in the sound around me. Morrigan was shouting my name.

"Isthalla, _stop_!" she demanded. I did. My hands dropped limply at my side, as did the assassin in front of me. He hit the ground with a considerable thud, followed by painful groans while clutching his leg.

It took a moment for the high to leave my blood. I blinked, the fog leaving, and turned to find Morrigan staring worriedly at me. She said nothing, only pressed her lips together and turned back to go check on Alistair. He was just waking up.

"He's the leader," I croaked, finally finding my voice again. The rage was ebbing away, though I could hear her cackling in the back of my mind, delighted.

_Did you love the power, my darling? Did it burn and ache with pleasure in your veins? That is my embrace for you, my pet. My little mage._

Her voice faded with a final chuckle of warm laughter, and I shook my head. The assassin had since gathered himself, but remained on the ground clutching his bleeding leg. Despite the pain I knew to be coursing through his veins, a faint smile threaded on his lips, and a sharp glint twinkled in his eyes. I was a bit taken aback by the image, but nonetheless stormed up to him and crossed my arms.

"Who sent you?" I demanded. Sten took up alongside me, staring the assassin down. I realized, now, that he was an elf- like myself. I glared.

"A _name_, elf!" I spat, sending a sharp kick to his leg. He only allowed a quick gasp in response before holding his breath and shutting his eyes. He was controlling his reaction. He knew I would kill him. Smart boy.

"Funny thing, that you use that word like an insult," he chuckled. The blood surfaced on his lips as he laughed, trickling down his chin. He coughed a bit, then dipped his head low again to recollect himself, and then looked up with a wide, slightly bloody smile. "Such ferocity for such a beautiful woman," he mouthed in a foreign yet velvet accent.

I felt a bit startled in that moment by such a bold statement. Either he was trying to warm up to me in order to consequently save his own hide, or truly Morrigan had done a fantastic job. I was more apt to believe the prior. This man had just tried to kill me, after all. I offered a dour and cruel smile.

"Courtesy will not save me for cutting out your tongue for sheer annoyance, assassin," I sneered with displeasure. "A _name_, if you will. I do not have all day." I kicked him again, this time across the face. He grunted and let out a chuckle.

"Very well, my viperous beauty," he laughed through coughs of splattered blood that decorated the ground in front of him. "If you wish to know, truly, who wanted you dead - then you shall have your answer." I waited, and he took a pause to turn enough to look me in the eyes. I am ashamed to say I felt a blush creep up my neck by his expression.

"Loghain," he mouthed unimportantly. Though I had suspected the name and burned it into my conscious, hearing it aloud was something I had yet to prepare myself for. Rage boiled up within my stomach and into my chest. I wanted to kick something, and opted this time to take out my fury on a nearby rock. It soared into the outlying woods. The assassin laughed at my frustration.

"I see he was an acquaintance of yours, perhaps?" he tried. Another sharp kick to his abdomen, and this time I was surprised to find Sten pulling me back. His look of concern forced me to calm myself, and with a regretful sigh I re-crossed my arms and forced myself to stay a few feet away.

"You could say that," I ground out. Alistair had finally join the party, and wobbled up beside Sten with Morrigan behind, righting him into place when he swayed to the side. My eyes flicked back to the elf, who had not since removed his gaze from my figure. I felt distressed by the way he looked at me. The burn began to spread to my ears.

"You are Grey Wardens, are you not?" his question surprised me a bit, though I suspected Loghain would have at least told him that much. No use sending in an assassin unprepared. I nodded, and he continued. "This Loghain fellow certainly wanted you both dead; I was paid a great deal of money to ah, _remove_ you from his Ferelden."

"Ferelden is not _his_ country," Alistair interjected rather coldly. "It belonged to King Cailan and his family." The assassin absorbed this information, and clicked his tongue.

"Ah, I see. My apologies," he nodded. I was briefly surprised by the courtesy, but continued to set my wary eyes on him. He had the type of gaze that would fool you into handing over everything you owned. By his smile, his quirks, and even his accent - he was armed to disable his foe. I understood that much.

"Who hired you," I demanded. He seemed confused by my question, then offered me a condescending smile.

"Why, Loghain, my sweet captor - if you hadn't forgotten already?" he tried. I could hear the poison in his voice, and reviled it. My frown deepened into a snarl. It took all of my willpower to resist the urge to kick him again.

"Who do you _work for_, elf?" I spat. "Loghain was your _commissioner,_ not your employer. I doubt he would have picked up and hired a rogue off the streets." He seemed surprised by my derailment, and raised his brow to emphasize.

"Oh, ah," he laughed, a bit nervous. "I suppose it would come to that…" he tapped his chin. "Ah, well - the _Antivan Crows_, if you must know. Though I suspect now I will be killed by them, so telling you will be of no consequence." I narrowed my gaze.

"And why is that?" I demanded. He paused, absorbing my stance, and moved to sit up. His leg was broken quite badly, though despite the seeping blood and fragments of bone threatening to break through the skin, he was very calm as he sat up and adjusted it in order to face me. He put the weight of his body on his left hand.

"You see-" he grunted, adjusting again, then looking up at me. "I was unfortunately given no room to fail this mission. And seeing as how we did not count on having a band of trained companions tagging along, it seems I have put myself into a great predicament." He smiled at me, and I found myself amused by the assassin's disinterest in the fact he was going to die today. Either he was truly arrogant, or he truly did not care. Either option intrigued me.

I had to withhold a slightly bemused smile of interest as I took a step forward, wary of the nodding look from Sten, and crouched in front of the elf. His eyes smiled at me in a way I knew to be deceivingly genuine. If it had been a different situation and a different time, I would have even said he was genuinely handsome, and he was _genuinely_ honest when he thought of me as attractive. Genuine.

Though I doubted it.

"And this is where you're supposed to convince me why you're worth keeping alive?" I tested, careful to keep my voice low so the others wouldn't hear. A bitter grin crept across his lips.

"Now, I wouldn't expect you to be quite so generous, beautiful Warden," he murmured back. "You intend to kill me, and you do not seem the type of woman to go back on her word."

"No, I'm not," I answered truthfully, unable to curve the small smile on my lips. "Loghain was a foolish man; it was his mistake to send you in so unprepared."

"I certainly see that now," he nodded in agreement. "And what a fiery mage you make; it brings me great pleasure to be abused by a beautiful woman like you before my death."

"I told you flattery wouldn't work, assassin," I smirked, feeling the heat and vile creep up my neck. I could feel my line of judgment skewing. I knew he was saying it simply to try and charm me, but yet I felt a certain pleasure in hearing it. I imagined outside of work he was quite the lover. My neck burned with the thought, and I briskly moved back a few inches. I had been too close. He chuckled, seeing my brief moment of confusion.

"I only speak what I see is true, Warden," he grinned. "My name is Zevran. Zevran Arainea." He looked at me expectantly, but I only offered him a curt and condescending grin.

"Ah, the sly vixen will not tell me her name, despite me knowing it already. Beautiful and proud, what a spicy combination." We were still speaking in murmurs, though slightly louder as the others began to bore down around us both, eager to find a solution. Alistair seemed aggravated. Sten said nothing.

"And what if I _were_, say, to give you the option of staying alive. For now," I paused, making emphasis on the _for now_ part. "What would you do to convince me?"

"Other than the fact that I am one of the best assassins in all of Thedas, and can pick the lock of an castle estate cell in twenty seconds, and have escaped the clutches of an Orlesian noblewoman unscathed?" he tried, flashing another daring smile at me. I had to resist the urge to return the smile. I nodded, waiting to see what he'd say.

"I would say…" he paused, contemplating his approach. "That I also offer great company to beautiful women such as yourself, should you need someone to warm your bed for you." With that he offered a small wink, and I felt the blush instantly creep to my neck, though I said nothing. Before I let my self-consciousness get the best of me - and the fact my new wardrobe had a dangerously low neckline flaunted quite casually in front of him - I spoke up.

"How do I know you won't still kill me in my sleep and get your reward?" I asked quite coldly, standing and crossing my arms. From up high, the intoxication he'd somehow enveloped around me left, and I felt the blush leaving. He paused only for an instant, though my mind was already filled with triumphant confidence that I had finally won.

_Tell me that, assassin… you cannot talk your way out of that one._

"Well…" he mouthed very carefully, studying the ground. "I would say… that my loyalty lies with the highest bidder." He looked up, genuine, and I felt a sharp stab of surprise twist in my gut. Honesty. There was no mistaking it. I would laugh if I didn't feel so self-conscious right now, my arms crossed tightly over my chest.

"Very well, assassin. You're of more use to me alive than dead," I decided. I offered my hand. "But trust me when I say-" I pulled him up. His hand was warm and bare against mine. "-step out of line and I will tear off the rest of that leg without hesitation." I met his calm, warm brown eyes with the brimstone of my threat, boring down into him with a sharp glare. He understood, and nodded.

"What, we're taking the _assassin _with us now?" Alistair finally hollered from the back of the group. I had forgotten he was awake now. Forcefully slinging the elf assassin's arm around my shoulder, I helped him begin to limp back to the cart. He smelled of firewood and cinnamon. Crisp, sharp, and intense. I ignored the fact he was more than comfortable leaned into me, and allowed Sten to take lead.

"Shut up, Alistair," Morrigan barked.

A shortly following yelp told me she'd slapped him across the arm again. He said nothing more on the walk back to Bodahn's cart.

"We'll drive into the woods east-bound and find a clearing over the hills to rest for the evening," I announced once we had regrouped. "I imagine there will be bandits that escaped to go alert their masters-" I turned to the assassin for assurance, who nodded briefly, then back to the others, "so we can no longer stay on the northern road to Denerim; we'll go through the forest."

"But that'll take twice as long!" Alistair scoffed. I shot him a look of irritation. That seemed to shut him up enough.

"Right, well," he paused, fidgeting and suddenly overly conscious of himself. "I suppose I'll need new walking boots, then." Though there was a note of clear distaste in his voice, he did not dispute my decision for the rest of the afternoon.

Perhaps this new look was more intimidating after all.


	35. A Simple Desire

Truthfully, I did not expect to find myself in such a wonderful and interesting predicament. Then again, I had also not expected to fail my mission; ah well, luck seemed to be a mischievous and cruel vixen as it were lately. What a sweet poison she has given me.

To be in the company of not only a beautiful woman, but a powerful mage was both interesting and problematic. True, I could just as easily get the job done and return to this Loghain fellow for the other half of my payment, but that still left the issue of the Crows out for my blood. That was a problem best contemplated over time. For now, I would stay with the icy mage-woman and her strange companions. I was not terribly keen on returning to my dingy bed at the brothel in Antiva, though the company was quite sweet.

To my best interest, I would remain at this Grey Warden's side. For now.

At the present, I was not doing a very good job at keeping my promise. She had somehow vanished without my notice - a peculiar thing, usually I noticed everyone who came and went within my eyesight. It was an unconscious trait I had picked up and habitually practiced. The other young mage, just as icy if not less indulgent than my spicy elven captor, remained in the same spot I'd adjusted out of the corner of my eye as of a half-hour ago.

For being such a strange group, they worked together surprisingly well. My intuition told me the tall, grey brute named Sten was trusted more by Isthalla than the others. She confided in the proud animal when no one was looking - or at least assumed they were not. I already saw an exploitable weakness beneath her prickly exterior, and what a pleasure it would be to explore that soft skin.

I made no quick move to stand. The others were more than aware of my presence, and made sure to send me their angriest glare whenever they had the chance. As I stood, the blond human who had seemed less than interested in bringing me along was nearly out of his seat when the kindly old mage pulled him back down and murmured something to him. Good boy. He listens to his masters.

I offered a wide and charming smile to the woman across the camp - my thanks - before turning to stroll off in the general direction I sensed the mage had gone. I'd grown considerably talented at such a feat, and even if my initial gut reaction was wrong, I always got it right by the third time.

As I expected, I had hardly cleared the thin cropping of trees into the open when I noticed her standing in front of the lake. The trees had given way to a wide open berth of shallow valley, and in the center stood a glassy lake illuminated by a burning hot sun overhead. Late afternoon. However, despite the beautiful scenery I could not help but find myself enamored by the actions of the Warden herself.

Though she was practicing, from the perspective of an observer it looked more of an elaborate dance than spell targeting. Her boots had been removed, as had her garters and leggings. She stepped light as a feather across the ground, soundless, before swinging out into a wide arc and dipping low. I could hear the soft, repetitive melody of incantation as she rose to her feet, graceful as a swan, and rose both arms fluidly above her head.

With each movement came intent, and with that I witnessed small sparks and a brief but beautiful glow of light erupt from her fingers with each gesture. I had heard of this once before - each mage reacted differently, though this was hardly the image of the convulsing, twitching mage-man I'd seen in the Free Marches. She was meditating; subconsciously practicing with her powers. A beautiful sight, indeed, to see something so very intimate yet graceful in the hands of such a lovely creature.

My admiration was interrupted when she clearly took notice of my presence and swung a jagged and hard right, deliberately shooting a spark of magic in my direction. She had meant no damage and carelessly flung it to my left as a warning. She knew I could not outrun or dodge anything she had to throw at me. Despite the fantastic skills of their elderly healer, I would have to take it easy on my leg for quite a few weeks. A bit aggravating, really, but if it was to be spent in the company of this woman, perhaps it wasn't so bad.

"So is this how you greet every stranger who sneaks up on you?" I noted cheerfully while studying the spot where her attack had hit. It singed the grass and earth, leaving nothing but a charred, black mark behind. I ticked a brow and turned back to her with a smile, limping forward. Her hands raised in defense, but she said nothing as I approached within a few feet of her.

"Or am I simply an exception by rule of my sinfully charming demeanor?" I added with another charming glance in her direction. She seemed unimpressed, much different than the slightly bewildered yet fantasized woman I'd met on the field. Fighting and action seemed to charge her emotions; when alone, and in control, I was forbidden to see that breathless and beautiful display of genuine fire she flaunted so ardently in battle.

Uncaused by my light attempts at conversation, she shot another bolt of magic at me, this time just inches from my foot. I winced a bit, but did not move from my spot. A dry and impatient smile stretched across my lips.

"I should like to declare a treaty," I offered. She had been busy attempting to walk away, and shot a vicious but curious glare over her shoulder. Good, she at least had the patience to listen to reason. I waited until she had returned to me, and stood but a foot from my face. Though I imagine she did this for the purpose of intimidation, I couldn't help but notice her eyes were a lovely shade of amber, and her lips painted as red as a winter rose.

"You don't exactly have any room to bargain, elf," she shot back, pointing an assured finger into my chest. I grinned.

"You mistake me, Warden," I answered kindly. "I simply wish to propose a pact to ensure both your safety as well as mine." She perked, a new light in her eyes, and stepped back.

"So you do fear mortality, then?" she asked in a genuinely surprised voice. Clearly she had contemplated this; the thought amused me. Had my valiant and courteous introduction thrown her off? Was she so readily used to being combated both on field and in conversation? A truly interesting thought.

"But of course," I shrugged while hobbling around her to make my way over to a comfortable looking tree. "What man does not wish to stay alive to enjoy the finest wine and beautiful company offered? I would miss it." She grew quiet, tenderly following me over to the tree. Though I struggled to sit down, she did not help me. When I finally settled down into a comfortable spot, I bore her a dry smile and said nothing. Clearly silence unnerved her, for it was only a few seconds before she broke back into the conversation with ready force.

"You know, I still haven't decided if you shall live, assassin-" she said with biting diction. Such a saucy little mage, wasn't she? Oh, what a feat it would be to bed such a fierce woman. I entertained my imagination with the challenge while drinking in her lovely features.

Her legs were bare and moon-white, like the rest of her lovely skin, and hips supple and shapely. Wild hair fanned out like fire from an equally lovely face decorated by flame-like red tattoos, suiting her much-vibrant personality to an image of untamed power. And carefully held within the cradle of a low-hanging neckline shown an attractive, apple-sized bosom. She caught my wandering gaze and suddenly grew silent - it was at that point I realized she had continued talking, and I had forgotten - and her ears dropped on her head. I suddenly shifted to the new knowledge that she was embarrassed, and an unmistakable blush creeping up her neck. Only seconds after they faltered, her unusually tall elven ears stood erect once more, the embarrassment vanished. What a humorous quirk!

"Were you listening to me?" she asked, though the bite had left her voice. She seemed quite self-conscious now.

"How could I forget, my Warden?" I slurred very lazily and quite seductively in her direction. She caught my half-lidded gaze and fell quiet. I half-expected her ears to drop again, but they never did. Curious to imagine that was a rare occurrence, and from what emotional reaction, I wondered? I'd never seen such an odd yet interesting phenomena in the elven ears.

Unable to keep up her visage of anger, she turned to storm away in baseless frustration. As a last remark, she threw it quite casually over her shoulder, though intended it as being the final word in our supposed "argument". She was not accustomed to regular conversation, at least not with myself.

"And _don't_ call me your Warden-" was her final, cutting remark. I saw it as an opportunity, rather than a shut-off. I settled more into my seat, crossing my arms behind my head, before smiling and shutting my eyes.

"Are you opposed to such flattery?" I posed the question harmlessly after her. As expected, a few more indignant paces forward and she paused, one foot still half-raised, and turned back to me. I saw the hesitancy grip her mouth again, then hide under a taut-formed frown.

"Just don't call me that, assassin," she finally responded, more forcefully than necessary. I had hit a nerve, though I wasn't sure why. "I have a name," she added. I smiled wide in genuine surprise, amused by how easily this woman got her feathers ruffled by such neutral tone. She didn't know how to react.

"As do I, Warden," I answered coolly. This truly did stun her. I almost believed another blush was creeping up her neck when she stormed forward again, crossed her arms, and frowned down at me. She seemed a bit frustrated.

"So, what is it, then?" she demanded after a hesitant pause. So she had forgotten.

_Oh, you clever little elven minx. Didn't want to admit it, did you?_

I wanted to laugh, but kept it to myself. She would only sour more if I were to laugh at her expense. She seemed far too proud to forgive someone for laughing at her lack of knowledge, which I imagined was far more expanded than most of my known kin. She wasn't very much like the others. Instead, I opted to allow her to admit her mistake on her own.

"This I have already told you," I said quite calmly while opening my eyes to observe her. I decidedly pulled a small dagger from my belt and began to play with the blade in my lap. She seemed quite unsettled by this, so after a few more twirls I tucked it back into my belt and held up my hands.

When she said nothing, I cleared my throat and held out my hand in dramatic gesture. "Zevran Arainea, at your _kinky _service, my Warden-" I bowed as much as I could while sitting down, then propped my hands behind my head once more. I breathed a deep sigh.

"Now then-" I gestured for her to sit down, and after a bristling moment of hesitation, she did. Cross-legged and unsure, she decided on a spot adjacent to me with her hands tucked consciously around her ankles. I glanced at her. "Might you grant me the pleasure of your name, my Warden?" I tried, hoping she would take my invitation. To my surprise, she did.

"Uh, Isthalla-" she admitted, then paused on her words, thoughtfully chewing on her tongue to think about her diction. I had yet to see such a deliberately nervous and unsure side of this fiery woman. I had to say it was quite appealing.

"Mmm," I purred, "_Isthalla_…" The words slipped out of my mouth like a lover's kiss. A sweet, melodic sound. I liked the taste. "Rolls off the tongue," I added, the pleasure sinking into my voice.

She was continually moving her hands to cover things - her ankles, her bare arms, her chest. I had yet to see her act such a way around the others in camp, even the blond fighter named Alistair. I wondered if perhaps she was not used to such admiring company. I wished to know more.

"I never noticed," she finally said, clearly aware of my enjoyment. I desperately wished now to see what a lovely woman like herself looked like truly relaxed. Perhaps sprawled across the grass, or resting her tangle of night hair across my lap while I stroked her locks. I imagined quite a many ways where her lovely body would rest, and ways to remove such a troubled and guarded expression from her face. Scowling was not bred for a face like hers.

"Antivan?" I asked after a too-long pause. I'd become wrapped up in the warm afternoon breeze. The sound of the rustling leaves comforted me, and brought me peace. I did not often find such isolation and solitude in my handsome but noisy Antiva.

"Hm?" she perked. Clearly, she had been wrapped up in her own world, eyes roaming across the lake. There was a peculiar look in her eyes when she stared too long at the water, then quickly turned them to the distant mountains.

"Your name, I mean," I corrected myself. "I have come to find that such lovely names are often rooted in my Antiva," I nodded proudly. She blinked in surprise, and shrugged. Her guard was finally slipping.

"I-I don't know," she said indifferently. Her hand was back on her bare arm, rubbing it out of some unconscious need to cover herself. She really shouldn't. It would be such a shame.

"Well," I said, sitting up with a grunt. She was a bit disturbed by my abrupt movement, and pulled her knees back to her chest. "It is a lovely name, nonetheless…" I smiled and winked at her before working to stand. She helped me this time.

"Thanks, I suppose," she mumbled when I began to walk forward. I smirked over my shoulder at her, beginning my trek back to the camp.

"I should like to have more conversations with you in the future," I said. I was being genuine when I said it; perhaps it was the eagerness or cheeriness, but by the look on her face I thought she might have believed me. I could have imagined a small smile slipped briefly onto her lips as she turned away.

"Don't press your luck, Zevran," she yelled after me without turning back around. I chuckled as I entered under the cover of the forest and back towards my tent.

_Ah, but you have called me by my name, pretty minx._

_That is all I wanted to hear._


	36. Luther the Wolf

"She's a bit of a loner, isn't she?"

The question was invading and irritating, turning my bleary, half-awake eyes to the too-close assassin perched on tree stump adjacent to me. I wanted to glare at him for interrupting my concentration, but found his eyes busy staring at _her_. I bristled.

"What do you mean?" I challenged. I wanted his eyes off of her immediately. It was bad enough she had decided to let an assassin live, much less join our group. I was less than thrilled about the idea of being stabbed in the back while I slept.

"The Warden," he mouthed in his thick Antivan accent. A smile flickered on the edge of his lips, and his eyes prowled over her in a far-too-invading type of way. I frowned. "She seems like a very lonely woman," he added for thought. Now I could feel my cheeks beginning to burn red. The _way _he said it, Oh _Maker_ it made my skin crawl just thinking about it.

"She _likes_ her privacy," I ground out between gritted teeth. I wanted him to _stop _looking at her in that wolfish, predatory way. I was having trouble enough as it without him oggling her the entire trip. Stupid assassin.

He perked a brow at my response, smug and amused by my answer. I bared him no humor, and waited expectantly as he prepared to point out how I was so _terribly _wrong, because _clearly _he knew everything and anything there was to know about our Warden after only being in her company for oh, what - a _week?_

"Is that in her words or just something you have assumed?" he paused, tapping a finger brightly to his chin and baring me a wicked smile. "_Or_.. is it perhaps because you jealously _wish _it were since, _otherwise_, it would mean she rejected you?" I could hear an arrogant laugh coloring his voice, and I suddenly had the urge to punch him in the face - _hard_. My own face turned the embarrassing color of crimson.

"_No_," I blurted too quickly. My eyes darted to her in a sudden fear she was listening to our entire conversation. She still seemed completely absorbed in a new book she'd purchased from Redcliffe before we left, away and distant to the living world. She liked to read an awful lot. I turned back to find Zevran expectantly watching me, one eyebrow perched on his forehead as an invitation - _Well?_

"S-She's just... a very private person. I-I noticed," I started, feeling my anger leave me as I recounted the many times I'd secretly - and sometimes not-so-secretly - watched her go about her day. My shoulders shrugged in blank dismay. "Honestly I've never seen her smile, or laugh, or.. joke about anything to be honest." Even though I knew it to be true, hearing the words come from my mouth didn't make me feel any less of an ass. I hadn't made much of an attempt to be _friends _with her exactly, but then again she didn't make it very _easy _to try and have a conversation, either. I frowned.

"Perhaps then she needs a bit of _tension _released, no?" Zevran's voice interrupted my stormy thoughts. I turned and blinked at him before the meaning of his words absorbed into my mind. I threw my arms in front of my face and made a disgusted sound.

"O-Oh - _OH! _That's _vile_!" I yelped. "How could you _say _that about her?" He smiled wickedly in my direction.

"How could you _not_?" he chuckled, his eyes flicking back to where she sat some twenty yards away. I saw his expression change to that same invasive look that I didn't like. "She is nothing short of _stunning_, do you not agree? Not very many women I have seen in my days have such fair, silken complexions."

"She _has_ lived inside of a tower her entire life," I admitted, my eyes turning to observe her as well. She had no campfire by her tent, but instead was lit up by the glow of moonlight that reflected off her skin in nearly-ivory white. I blinked in surprise to find how right the assassin was, and felt a bit shameful at the same time when I found myself oggling her as well.

"A tower?" Zevran mused, resting his chin in his hand. "I don't suppose you mean like the fairy tales of princesses and captors locking away beautiful women for themselves, do you? Because that would be absolutely _delicious_." The moment was lost when I screwed up my face and turned to Zevran, nose wrinkling.

"What-? _No. _The Circle Tower of Ferelden, you idiot," I said. He didn't flinch from my insult, eyes still glued to Isthalla. "Where in Maker's name did you learn your history?" He was fully turned now, both hands on his knees as he shared his own private moment with himself over the Warden, tilting his head to one side.

"_My _Antiva has never been one for books of facts and war and plague. We fancy ourselves with stories, instead. Tales of romance and betrayal, of _love _and _lust_," he purred in a low, throaty voice that made me lean back a good foot and crinkle my expression.

"_Right_, very weird.." I muttered while flipping my legs around on the log to face the fire again and poke it with a stick. I didn't feel like talking much more about her in front of the assassin. I was grumpy enough as it was and I _still _never got the blue cheese Morrigan had promised me in Redcliffe. Sneaky lying witch-thief. She probably ate it all herself.

He didn't move for Maker-knows-how-long, not until I heard a new pair of footsteps approach the campfire and found Morrigan standing adjacent to me (Oh _Maker_, she didn't learn how to read thoughts, did she?) with the wild wolf she'd adopted as a pet at her side. We'd accidentally caught it in our beartrap a few nights prior, and rather than kill it (like I'd warned her and Isthalla _both _to do over and over) they bandaged it up with Wynne's help and decided to _keep _the mangy thing. Morrigan apparently had a knack with charming wild animals.

She looked positively irate, as did her big, furry new companion with sharp teeth. I think it wanted to eat me, judging by the look on its face. Then again, Morrigan always looked that way too.

"Here," she said flatly. I was busy watching her distant, glaring expression and didn't see the poorly-wrapped package shoved into my face. I crossed my eyes to look down at it, but my nose smelled it faster than I could make it out.

"_CHEESE!_" I shrieked in delight before snatching it from her hands and undoing the wrapping. "Oh _Maker_, where have you been all my life?" I cooed to it.

"Quit being so dramatic, it's just _cheese_," she scoffed while sitting down next to me and stiffly crossing her arms over her chest. Zevran must have turned back around - honestly I didn't notice - because he was now busy oggling a new thing of female-ness that decided to settle on the space right above Morrigan's chest.

"Stare any harder and your eyeballs just might fall out, assassin," she warned in a light, delicate voice that I knew very well to be _very, very _bad. I looked up from a mouthful of cheese and tried to make a poignant assurance of her threat, but instead it came out as more of a garbled nonsense than anything meaningful. Zevran held up his hands in surrender.

"I only marvel at things that should be admired, such as a lovely bosom," he grinned. I sputtered on my cheese. Morrigan made a distinctly unhappy face and shot a glare in his direction.

"As much as I _appreciate _your enthusiasm, at least have the intelligence to oggle them _elsewhere _lest your _wandering _eyes be found by my wolf," she responded back. Zevran seemed to take the hint, and chuckled before standing to his feet and sidling off towards the forest. His leg had healed unfortunately well; no more sleep for me for the next few weeks. I watched him leave, stiffened in my seat in case he got any ideas to go near Isthalla's tent, then recoiled and relaxed when I saw him head into the opposite direction and off towards the forest. He disappeared into the forest for hours sometimes, and would re-emerge anew before anyone noticed; it worried me.

"I don't think we should trust him," Morrigan ventured in an unsure voice as she craned her neck over her shoulder to watch him. Her expression was peculiar and confused, but lessened as she turned back to face me and found my adamant interest in the cheese more shocking than Zevran's wandering eyes.

"Lest we don't _starve_," she chided irritably. I stopped mid-bite to look up at her and bared a sheepish shrug in her direction.

"Cheese is cheese," I mumbled through a mouthful. I worked my tongue over the bite and smiled warmly. "And cheese is _good_." She pulled her lips into a slightly-disgusted sneer before standing to her feet and habitually brushing off the front of her robes, despite there being no dirt on them.

"_You're welcome_," she said a bit too bitingly before stalking off towards Isthalla's tent to probably discuss sneaky witch things like turning me into a frog - or maybe a turtle. I honestly don't know which I would like less. Probably the frog.

I was preparing to stuff the last bite in my mouth when I realized that Morrigan's furry new bodyguard had not followed her, and was instead sitting a foot from me on his haunches and staring me down with murderous yellow eyes. I froze, tensing my throat, then looked to my cheese.

"Oh no you don't," I glared while slowly cradling my cheese-hand further away from him. He followed it with his moon-eyes, then licked his great chops like a hungry dog. I blinked in surprise.

"I said _no_," I warned again, but the threat was futile. He stepped forward and dropped his great, massive head onto my lap, nearly making me shriek in fear he was going to try and bite off my arm, but instead just laid there and whined. I paused and stared. Not much of a big bad wolf, was he?

"Oh that's just not _fair_," I complained while still holding my arms high above my head in case he decided he wanted those for a snack instead. He whined again and licked my knee, and I felt myself caving. I sighed.

"Here, _fine_," I grumbled before sinking back down into my shoulders and letting him take the cheese from my palm. He ate it in one, great wolfy gulp, then happily trotted away on his big wolf-paws over to where Isthalla and Morrigan sat by a newly-conjured campfire much bigger than mine. I saw him flop down right on Isthalla's lap - as if the beast were a harmless house pet!

The sight was bewildering, if not concerning. Isthalla mindlessly ruffled the creature's ears, book still in one hand, and continued indistinctly chattering away to Morrigan. How in the world they both managed to tame a wild animal into a harmless lapdog in a few days was beyond me.

Sneaky mages.


	37. Wound

Dim were the grounds that I walked. Shadows played across the stone, bringing false monsters to my eyes. Half-lidded and half-asleep, I made my way around the first floor to my second post. The tower was at rest, or as much as expected. I poked my head around the corner of the children's dorm. A few candles flickered in the darkness, echoing a faint chorus of quiet sleepers. One of the candles quickly went out, followed by giggling. I turned back to the hallway and continued on.

Outside the thick stone wall I could hear the distant roaring of wind and rain. There was nothing to be had or to guard on this miserable night watch. It was as sullen and bleak as ever, with only the creak of shifting armor and yawns to fill the evening. I passed a comrade, George, and nodded mutedly to him before continuing on. He looked as if he were about to slip off the tip of spear the way he leaned on it. I heard him shuffle behind me to stand back up straight.

"Captain," he nodded after me. I waved over my shoulder.

In the foyer only a few torches were lit so as to help keep the others from tripping over the rugs. I treaded lazily across, boots dragging, to the opposite side of where Ser Yorik stood swaying near the entrance. We were at least accompanied by the faint sound of wind howling outside. An invisible breeze seemed to pull at our feet.

"If it weren't for this armor I might just freeze," Yorik complained after a long few minutes dragged by. He shifted uncomfortably in front of the door, then rested his hand on the hilt of his belt. "Damn winter's clawing its way right under the door," he added.

Right after did a bang shake the other side of the enormous wall, rupturing Yorik from his post with a fearful shout. I jumped and stepped back, staring wide-eyed and frightful at the entrance as well. He looked at me, startled. I could see his hand already curling around the hilt of his sword.

Another bang.

"Maker's breath, what is it?!" he choked, taking another step away as the doors shuddered. I said nothing and began to draw my sword as well. Another bang resounded in the hallway, this time making a few surrounding picture frames shudder. My heart was in my throat, and by now a throng of fellow templars had rushed from their posts to investigate. We stood around the door in a semi-circle, fearful with hands at our waist.

Then, I heard her.

A faint, indistinct cry for help muttered through the door. Before I knew it I had rushed forward and slung the barricades off. Mere seconds after I had removed the beams, the entrance doors swung open from the force of sleet and wind. A great, fearsome howling overtook the chamber and drowned out the entire foyer. The men staggered back from the pelting snow and ice, and I hunched over to protect myself. Out of the howling darkness a hand snatched around my ankle.

I shouted and reached for my sword, then stopped when I caught sight of a woman rather than the abomination I had expected. She lay strangled at my feet - naked, wet, and bleeding. The sight was so offensive I forgot to look away, and instead found my eyes greedily looking over the bare and wounded flesh. My shock quickly gave way to fear when she spoke, pleading in a foreign language that tempered of horror. Unthinking, I reached down and pulled her up, then tore off my cloak and wrapped it around her. Even under the thick material of my gloves, she was frozen to the touch, and shaking so badly she could not stand. I turned to the others.

"Get the Commander, NOW!" I shouted at them. They stumbled into one another to obey my order, and quickly moved to help me pull the girl inside. The frost had slowed much of the bleeding, though I knew it wouldn't be long before her skin would blacken from it as well. She would die if we didn't do something.

If _I_ didn't do something.

Two of the others moved to push the doors close and lock them once more. I wrapped the cloak tightly around her shameful display and placed her head upon my lap. _Maker's breath_, she was barely alive. It must have taken all of her remaining strength to beat on the door so loudly. I pulled off my gauntlet and glove and put a bare hand to her face. She felt as ice.

She had since passed out and spoke no more. I feared she had slipped into death, though by the weak rise of her chest she still clung to life. I pressed two fingers to the hollow of her neck. Though shallow, her heart still pitched. I turned to Yorik, who stood gawking over us both, and frowned.

"Fetch me the Senior Enchanter and two of her best healers. I will carry her down to the infirmary," I instructed. He nodded and began at a jog down the hallway. Only one man remained, nervously pacing from one foot to the other by the entrance. He had paused and watched Yorik leave.

"You," I called. He turned and obediently looked at me. I pointed after Yorik. "Follow him and make sure they have the necessary preparations ready. She may need incisions," I added. The boy nodded and turned to run after Yorik, leaving just myself with the girl.

_Woman…_ I corrected myself silently.

My eyes roamed back down to the forbidden region of her slightly-exposed breasts. I had never seen the naked flesh of a woman, much less touched it. A life raised in the Chantry was not known for sinful frivolities most young men took for granted. Only then did I become so distinctly aware of my situation I was threatened to drop her back on the floor, though I fought the urge. Instead, neck aflame and trembling fingers thrumming, I slipped my hands under the weight of her body (careful to keep her covered) and drew her into my arms. I stood and followed after the others into the corridor.

The Commander would flog me when he found out.

I stole a few glances at the woman as I climbed the staircases, ignoring the popping eyes of curious magi awoken from their sleep, and found that she was an elf. The cuts to her face were painful to look upon, though I imagined with a bit of healing and sleep - her skin would be pale and beautiful, much like the rest of her. Such thoughts burned in my chest and made my skin prickle. I forced my eyes away and continued the climb.

She was getting warmer.

Upon reaching the infirmary hall, I saw the Commander standing at the entrance with arms crossed. I dreaded the thought of what he would say when I approached. Would he turn her away - force me to put her back out into the cold like a stray pup? I willed myself into determination not to let it happen, though the faster I approached, so much more rapidly did his scowl intimidate me.

First Enchanter Leona saved me from the confrontation by stepping directly in front of the commander and pretending he was not there.

"Come, come - quickly now," she ushered me in, pushing the commander aside in the process to lead me into the infirmary. I moved past him without a word, still careful to shield the woman from the others, though it did not stop them from gawking. Half of the tower must have been awake after the disruption. I ignored the murmurs as I moved past, focusing my intent on following Leona.

As I gingerly placed her onto the makeshift cot, I felt a sense of disconnection overwhelm me. A cold feeling crept into my chest once I took in her full form once more - limp, twisted, and scarred from head to foot. The wounds were still quite fresh and, though I could not be sure in the dim light, reminiscent of intentional patterns. The words taunted my mind like a poison.

_Dark magic…_

Only the very disturbed would practice such dark arts as to mutilate their own skin in a magic ritual. For her sake, I prayed she had not performed the incisions herself, though that thought itself made me sick; the only other explanation pointed towards an involuntary sacrifice.

_Andraste's breath, who would do this?_

I could not fathom any man capable of such evil.

All too suddenly did the woman let out a horrific, wailing gasp for air and began to convulse and twist in the bed. The noises were not of someone looking to breath, but of a wretched animal gasping to escape. I was so startled by the sound I jerked back and froze, unable to react. I stared as her back arched and limbs stiffened.

The enchanters struggled to suppress her while nervous templars stood with hands on their swords. I turned to find the commander's eyes boring into me, a look that blamed and held me responsible for the entire situation without uttering a single word. She would be my sole responsibility from now on, whatever that meant or for however long.

I turned back as First Enchanter Leona muttered some form of incantation to sedate her into what looked like a state of unconsciousness. Though I did not know her, I feared for the woman's mortality. A part of me felt she did not deserve whatever cruel fate had been given to her, and for whatever reason the Maker had given her to me. As long as she lived, I would see to it that she was looked after and given the proper chance. No creature on earth deserved those scars.


	38. Kaidasa

_There are so many things I could have prevented._

_So many things I should have changed._

_And now it is my fault you are gone. I could have saved you._

_I would have died for you._

_Kaidasa._

"Would you like to hear another, serah?" her kind, gentle voice brought me back from a plane of darkness. I blinked, and turned a slow head to find her still sitting in the same spot - resting on the stone bench under the oak tree, a worn leather Chantry book at hand. I smiled, slow and warm, and nodded to her.

"If you wish," I answered. She smiled back and returned to her verse.

_At Shartan's word, the sky Grew black with arrows. At Our Lady's, ten thousand swords Rang from their sheaths, A great hymn rose over Valarian Fields gladly proclaiming: Those who had been slaves were now free. _

-_Shartan 10:1, Dissonant Verse_

A flickering frown crossed her face, and then a faint and weak smile as she looked back up at me. I could see the deflection in her eyes.

"Do you suppose the Maker could forgive us?" she asked. I could see now that her eyes were not just reflective, but blurring with the start of tears. I moved to her side and sat on the bench, placing an armored hand over her lap.

"What for, Kaidasa?" I eased, hoping to stay the silent tears that still threatened her gaze. She turned back to the verse with a wounded smile, and sniffed away her sadness.

"I did not ask to be born this way, yet I fear for my mortality," she murmured. "I have seen what we are capable of - I have been _used _for that very thing. It is a shadow that never leaves. I feel it, creeping up my heels wherever I go."

She turned to me, eyes bright and weak, and asked, "Will I be forgiven, Greagoir?"

….How could I refuse?

I took her by the hands, and waited for her to connect with my eyes. The sting had since left her vision, but I could see the worry still lining the edges of her mouth. My brow crumpled.

"Kaidasa, you are a _child_ of the _Maker_, and _beloved _of Andraste. You have done no harm to others, and so shall you never," I shook my head. "As far as I'm concerned, shall you walk the path of light, no harm shall come to you. You are safe here.

"I will protect you, Kaidasa," I added with a light pat to her hand. This seemed to comfort her, and with a small laugh and wipe of her dry eyes, she stood to her feet. I followed.

"I pray every night that the shadows will some day leave me," she commented. I began to lead her along the stone bridge leading back to the tower. We passed a few magi on the way, one of which politely smiled at both Kaidasa and myself. I offered a nod to the attending templar, a fellow knight named Bryce, before moving over to the edge of the bridge overlooking the water. Sitting her down on the wall, I took a careful seat beside her and looked out to the sunlit waters. They faded into the distance where a great, glowing sun hung in the afternoon sky. A nice breeze cooled the air up here.

_What a beautiful world the Maker has given us.._

"Many are those who wander in sin, despairing that they are lost forever," I recited in a calm and quiet voice. Kaidasa caught my gaze from the corner of her eye, and softened. A small grin flickered.

"But the one who repents, and who has faith…" she paused, thinking on the words, then turned back to the horizon. Her hair caught in the wind like black ribbons that twisted and danced to the rhythm of the breeze. Her eyes squinted against the glare, and I found myself suddenly astounded by her beauty. "..and unshaken by the darkness of the world," she finished.

I waited, and she looked to me for reassurance. I nodded and smiled at her to continue. Though she knew every line of the verse, she was shy to recite it. I urged her on.

"And boasts not, nor gloats," she continued while folding nervous hands over her lap and looking down, "over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes deligh-"

"-But takes _delight_ in the Maker's laws and creations, as you do _now_, Kaidasa," I took her then by the hands, and drew her attention back to the sun. It hung low in the sky now, and painted the horizon in an other-worldly display of color and fire. Light blazed across the lake's surface and far into the distance where our eyes could not follow. I squeezed her fingertips. "She shall _know_ the peace of the Maker's benediction," I finished with an earnest smile.

_The Light shall lead her safelyThrough the paths of this world, and into the she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her the moth sees light and goes toward flame,She should see fire and go towards Viel holds no uncertainty for her,And she will know no fear of death, for the MakerShall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword. _

We stayed there on the bridge for some time watching the sun set. It was only after the sky grew purple and Bryce returned with the two other magi that I turned my attention back to the tower. Kaidasa had not spoken since the recital of her favorite verse, and had since set to humming a gentle hymn. How I wished she would sing more often.

"We should retire," I spoke up once she'd grown quiet again. She broke from whatever thoughts she had lost herself within, and turned with half-awake eyes to find me standing beside her.

"Oh," she murmured before taking my offered hand and joining me. She checked her gown for dirt, then brushed off the skirt before turning to me. "Good idea," she smiled.

I couldn't help but smile back, heart temporarily in my throat, before allowing her to slip her hand, ever-familiar, into the crook of my armor to lead her back to the tower. She sang softly until we reached the gates.

_My Kaidasa, I will protect you._

_Always._


	39. Awakening

_Sweet, gentle Kaidasa. My mage. My love._

_How could they do this to you?_

A year had passed in my charge, and she had shone more brightly than any flicker of the sun's flame. My brilliant and beautiful Kaidasa, a woman born by the pure love and flames of Andraste herself. Every day I stood and basked in her overwhelming beauty and praised her will and strength of the Maker, and each night I wept under the quiet altar for my unforgiving love of this woman. I prayed that my affections would be taken from me, for it is unclean and forbidden for two such as ourselves to be together. I prayed for mercy on her gentle soul, and that under the watchful eyes of both Irving and the First Enchanter she would be kept safe. Maker watch over me. Andraste give me strength.

I am to sin on this night.

Kaidasa told me of her history, one of which echoed wretched nightmares not meant for the memory of one so kind. She had been tortured and bled by her former masters - that of a rogue blood magic cult that sent a sick feeling to the root of my stomach. To myself alone she confided (after no less than a year in my confidence) the full identity of her master. I had read of his name vaguely in old texts of folklore and horror, though never once believed them to be true.

By my memory, her supposed master was painted textually as a walking creature of death. His path was stroked by the flames of hate, and behind him he left only ash and barrens. By the will of his hate and limitless control over his powers, he helped bring about the age of dark arts - more importantly the practice of blood magic. He was known to the kinsmen of this folklore as Mahiel the Devourer, for everything within his path was taken and destroyed. Everything he touched turned to darkness. By my memory, this man - this horrible, vile creature of the Black City - was over five hundred years old.

Kaidasa never once faltered on her belief that her master was this same man of legend, and though I doubted her - I never interjected. I merely assumed he was some elaborate mage-man with delusions of historical power. If this demon _truly_ walked the earth, we would be turned to dust by the present.

The man she called Master abused and persuaded dear Kaidasa into his own fantasy, even at times drawing her sympathy despite the horrible stories she told me of mutilation and death from the other slaves. I would wince and swallow the lump in my throat whenever her fearful memories turned to fond ones, and she would recall her cruel keeper as a man of logic and calm nature. If he was anything like Devourer, he was not a man of reason. He had only one purpose, should he ever have the misfortune of meeting me, and that was to fall upon the edge of my blade.

I was terribly fond and protective of my sweet mageling, and only when the sobering reality of her mortality crept up on me did I feel that old fear come swooping back. Kaidasa was in danger once again, but not from the shadow of her keeper - this time I had reason to fear my own masters. The line between duty and reason is a glass-thin surface I have rarely set foot upon, but for her sake I would tread across the oceans if it meant keeping her safe. This was my reasoning in my betrayal.

I was leaving with Kaidasa.

Away from the tower and away from the harmful weapons of the other men, I could keep her safe. Tomorrow morning her Harrowing would take place, and tomorrow morning my commander would find reason to put her down before she had a chance. From the moment he laid eyes on her he had hated her kind. For six months after her arrival I was on nerve's edge day-in and day-out, fearful he would take matters into his own hands and slay her while she slept. Only by the protection of First Enchanter Leona and my own vigil did she stay safe, and after the first six months the Commander finally ignored her. So I hoped.

In the back of my mind a voice screamed to walk away from it - my logic and loyalty to the Maker demanded that I seek penance and turn away from this unjust betrayal. I could not will myself to turn from the door, not with her weak smile and memories shouting in the bigger part of my heart. My soul felt torn in two, and ashamed - I found myself turning the iron key and stepping into the phylactery storage chamber.

"Forgive me, Andraste," I bowed my head shut the door behind me.

Though I found her phylactery with disturbing ease, I felt a hand at my back before I could will myself to drop the vial and allow the hateful liquid to shatter on the frozen stone floor. Unthinking, I slipped the glass bottle into my robes before the intruder could see.

"Rembrandt Greagoir," a deep, husky voice growled behind me. I could feel the cold steel of metal armor on my shoulder. My heart thundered against my ribs as I turned to face the Commander. He had a wicked smile written on his face as he regarded me.

"Somehow I knew I would find you here," he said.

My head slammed against the stone as I was thrust into the prison. They didn't bother searching me. There was no need. Though they had no idea of my crimes, my former knights and fellow soldiers wasted no time in spitting on my corpse. One of them slurred an ugly insult in my direction, then shut the old wooden door to the jail hall. I was in the tower dungeon.

There was no way to save her now.

Frustrated, I kicked at the bars until my foot slipped and crunched against the iron. Instinctively I shouted and threw my body up against the cage in my anger. After a few more shoves, I fell against the prison in dismay and wept.

_Kaidasa I have failed you._

_Forgive me._


	40. Fall of the Forsaken

I lay in my bed that night pondering on my life. Greagoir said that all creatures were created in the Maker's image, and that amongst those he blessed few with the love and light of his bride, Andraste. He told me I was one of those precious few. Shy, I had brushed off the compliment with a smile and wave of my hand, though it had stuck with me long through the night.

Did I really deserve such a title?

Though a year had passed since my final night with my master, the scars he left still cut fresh into my body as if they had been inflicted days before. No healer nor enchanter could cure the terrible scars, so I was left - a disfigured reminder of the horror of blood magic. I couldn't stand to look at myself in the mirror anymore. Every time I did, his voice hissed in my ear.

_Why so sad, child?_

Startled, I swept the covers to my chest and sat up. It had been many moons since his viperous voice poisoned my subconscious, but never before had I heard him so clearly. My hands began to tremble as I gripped the sheets and tried to calm my pounding heart.

His laughter rung clear and true in my ears, and suddenly I was the same frightened mageling I'd been the first night he found me. His _special _one, he'd called me. His most favored and precious Antivan jewel.

_My Kaidasa…_

Like silk his voice whispered against my ear, and for a moment I was tempted to melt right back into his arms. It would feel wonderful to belong to him again, to know I was his special one. A second's breath caught me back. His greedy fingers pried inside of my mind.

I fought against the sensations I knew he controlled. Though I'd never been conscious of it at the time, my teacher Irving had taught my of a very particular, rare magic of the mind that magi used. Like himself, I possessed these abilities with practiced ease, though I'd never sought to use them. When I told him of my master's skills, he had suspected the man of a much more refined, sharpened version of these same practices. He was a danger to any mortal man with a weary mind.

In the present, I found it impossible to fight against the current of his beckoning. His calls echoed to me like the sweetest honey, and like a lost child seeking out its parent I returned to the voice. A great, blanketing shadow descended upon my chambers then, and before I could call out for help - or even scream - it lifted my body and carried me away.

I could not fathom in those next moments why no one could see me. I could not speak nor move, yet we soared just above the heads of late-night sleepers. Down the hall he passed a tired guard leaning on his sword. My stomach sickened. Even now, he could control them with a whisper.

I was dropped unceremoniously onto the cold stone of an abandoned chamber. By the looks of the worn pillars, it had once served as a small library and altar for prayer. A broken podium sat in ruin by an up-heaved section of shelves. As the strange, moving shadow shifted away I felt that same cold-sick fear return to my body. I was too frightened to move, and instead sat half-hunched and shaking in the middle of the room. Moonlight broke in through the crumbling rafters, basking me in an unsettling and naked glow. I felt entirely exposed under the light, and crumpled more into my body in hopes to become invisible.

_No need to fear me, girl._

Again his voice breathed as crisp as winter air. I could scarcely feel it whisper on the back of my neck. Chilled, I jumped and pressed fingertips to my skin. Nothing there. Fearful, I scanned the room for his body. Dust and ruined books were the only inhabitants of this dismal and lifeless crypt. A perfect tomb for my final hours.

"_Please_," I pleaded with him. I tried to conjure more, but my lips fell into a uneven whisper. Tears slipped down my face, and my hands shook against the stone floor. In the year I'd been in the tower, I had conjured myself a fallacy of protection and indestructibility. At times, I even pondered the idea that it had all been a horrible nightmare as Greagoir described. I had only recently come to the concept that my master was but a figment, a shadow - he could never harm me again. In that moment however, I was entirely immobilized by the magnitude of my terror.

He laughed at my notions, then I felt a wisp of air catch my cheek. Gasping, I clutched my face and witnessed a bird fly past my head and up into the chamber's canopy of broken beams and crumbling stone. The creature settled on a statue and regarded me with black, beady eyes. By the sleek, blue design of its feathers, I realized that the bird was a raven. It screeched and spread its claws again before descending down upon me. My scream was drowned out by the vast expanse of its wings, which grew to the near size of a fabled griffon's. He cloaked me in his arms, and I saw only darkness.

When I dared open my eyes, the shadows had receded. Around me lay remnants of feathers and blood. I looked up, trembling and teary-eyed, to find him towering over me. He stood hard and unmoving with his fire-eyes set upon me - angry, loathing, and loving. And like always, I felt again as a child in his presence. I could not contain myself - I fell at his feet and wept. And like always, he reached down and placed a cold and forgiving hand on my silken head.

"My Kaidasa," he murmured. "Do not cry, I am here…" he hushed me. His thumb rested under the hollow of my throat and drew my eyes heavenward. Around him the sky's light drew a glowing halo, though he stood against it like a burning fire. "Do not cry," he repeated, sounder. I obeyed.

Drawn to my feet, I felt his hands upon me and fell still. A part of me knew I should run, and an even smaller part wanted to. Though he could harm he as easily as the last time, my feet would not move. I stood motionless in his presence, inviting him to my body and very soul. He looked upon my face with consideration, then frowned as he regarded my scars. A rough fingertip traced each, individual scar until he'd touched every marking on my face. His hands began to trail to my throat, then to the ritual designs cruelly embedded into the flesh of my arms.

As he explored my scarred flesh with invasive fingertips, I felt my body begin to tremble in familiar, deep fear that rooted itself in my pounding chest. No longer was I possessed by the haze of false comfort, but rather controlled by the calculating power of his magic. He would no longer allow me to move. My terror began to build as his hand reached under the fabric of my neckline then paused.

"You left me that day, in winter," he murmured. Though I could not move, it did not stop the tears from falling or my hands from shaking. My heart thundered against my rapidly expanding ribs. "I trusted you, dear Kaidasa," he whispered into my ear, lifting my hair as he did so. His voice was venomous and breath hot. I shuddered.

"My precious jewel," he continued while letting his fingers slip further under my blouse. "My Kaidasa, we must finish what we started…"

"Sweet, vile _betrayer_!" he shouted, ripping the gown from my chest. It tore in half and fell around my ankles. Gasping, I felt the cold air claw around my naked body. He released me then, and I fell to the floor in a wretched pile of sobs. His voice screamed in my head, hurting me with wounds deeper than those on my skin.

_You betrayed me. _

_You killed me._

_How could you leave me, Kaidasa? _

_How could you turn to them for comfort?_

_I am your only Master, __your only lover. __Your only, Kaidasa. _

_I am your Master. Your Keeper._

_Your Savior, dear girl. __My Kaidasa._

I screamed for forgiveness, and only by his hand did I finally stop crying. He fell to one knee and opened his arms for me. I fell into them with the wounds of a frightened animal, my heart still screaming. I clung to him, pressing needy hands into his flesh and finding long-forgotten comfort in his shadow. "Forgive me," I whispered, tear-stained cheek pressed against his neck. His hand wrapped around my head.

"You are forgiven, Kaidasa," he answered.

Though he was known for his cruelty, the mage - the _man _I knew - was not always so full of anger and guilt. There were happier times - times when he would look at me as I was, and not as he saw the others. He would smile at me from the riverbank, threading out the water from his hair. At night, I would sit by the fire and carefully brush his dark hair until it shined. He would press a hand to my head and call me his jewel. I knew he wanted happiness - I could see such desires in the tiredness of his eyes. He desired to grasp that happiness again of which had been robbed from him.

The only mistake he had done was that he was remembered for his cruelty, and not his love. He was not the man of treacherous nightmares, but the master who taught me how to read, and guided my hands quietly over each page to give me the language of his people - of my people - and to feel like I had a place amongst the world. He gave me a purpose.

There was a different man trapped within his skin; the monster the world saw, and the master _I _knew. I loved him.

He was burdened by a hate they could not begin to comprehend, and should never try. It ate away his soul, piece by piece, and I was left watching it break each and every day he woke to another heavy heart, deep down until the madness finally consumed his broken, dry love and thus remained - only hatred. And I had left him, alone.

The man that touched my skin and held me in his arms was my master and my savior. He protected me from the world, and so on the night before my Harrowing I gave my body once more to his cause. Whether by my own will or his, I allowed him into the sanctity of body and soul that I swore he would never take again. I fell into love and sin, and in the shadow of the fallen Maker's temple my flesh was tainted once more by the Devourer's grasp.

_I love you, Mahiel._

_I will always love you._


	41. The Beginning

Before he became my master, I had no reason to speak. I had gladly sheltered my eyes from evil, abiding in the shadows where I could be kept safe by the Maker and His Beloved. I remained mute most days. Silence granted me a freedom most others did not possess with sharp tongues and fearful eyes. Those who speak have their voices taken away. Those who step into the light - they are dragged into an unspeakable place. A place where the Maker is all but absent, and their pleas can no longer be heard.

He had arrived a week ago. Boarded in a secluded nook of the pub, he holed up in the corner every night, surrounded by the shadows of his companions. Occasionally, they would shift in their seats or hold hushed conversation, reminding me that they still lingered. I was well aware of their presence, for he had been watching me. His eyes penetrated across a room full of drunken men and slave-maids like myself. At least a dozen of my fellow workers danced past his predatory gaze, yet he never wavered.

After a week, I grew accustomed to his eyes and continued my work undisturbed. On occasion, I could feel the needle-thin pressure of his gaze stabbing me in the back of my head. Once, he requested I bring a round of drinks to he and his men. My eyes flashed briefly to his own - the color of amber, and of fire. I had out of some unconscious need refused to look him in the eyes since his arrival. An expression of understanding and curiosity passed between us both as I set down his glass and stepped away. He had smiled at me.

The next day I found his seat empty where a shadow should have been hiding in the corner, watching the others but never joining. An immediate sense of urgency pressed against my chest when I noticed the absence, then quickly vanished when I reminded myself of how foolish the notion was - there was no reason to think he was in danger. Travelers came and went like the shore tides in my Antiva, and he was certainly no exception to such a rule. Yet, a part of him lingered in my mind well after he left. I couldn't help but feel a swell of anxiety each day I stepped down into the flickering lamplight of the evening crowd to find his seat ever-empty.

That night a great warmth filled the air; company was sweet, and the ale even sweeter. The well-remembered slop of drinks spilled over their happy cups. Seductive melodies strummed through the night air. The men were happily drunk, and their sweet rosebuds for the evening perched adorningly on their welcome laps. A celebration had come under way, and everyone was to rejoice! Another victory for the Crows, drinks all around! Bring in the women, bring in the music!

It was nights such as this that I took a moment to admire my brief but beautiful Antiva - that of lavished affections and perfumes, and of heavy-laden night air that danced with the song of a lover. The crowd was thick but happy, and decorated with the laughs of strangers bound together by their own company.

Though it was a beautiful sight, I stayed to the shadows where I belonged. Tray hugged to my bodice, I stood and smiled at the festive crowd as they rose into a crescendo on the floor, tables quickly shoved aside, and began to dance with one another. Another of my own stood alongside me, her nervous eyes darting a quick but kind smile in my direction before returning her attention to the floor. One of the brothel whores stumbled our way before taking hold of the elf girl's wrist and pulling her into the massive crowd. The whore didn't seem bothered by it, laughing at the maid's slapping hand as I watched them submerge into the growing crowd. The noise and light began to press in on me.

I scoped out a small break in the crowd leading to the stairs. I took a deep breath in and ducked my head low before making my way past a group of celebrating guildsmen. Before I could reach the stairs, I felt an arm entwine my waist and was forcibly dragged back. I relented to it, swallowing the lump in my throat, and looked up.

"What a pretty whore," he commented. I winced, feeling the heat creeping up my neck, and smiled back at him. The others laughed.

One of the men dressed in warrior's armor nodded and pointed his pint at me. He turned to his dark-haired leader with a frown. "Oh you're _scaring_ her, Seb!" he laughed, waving his drink and sloshing it on the floor. "Leave the poor creature alone."

I began to try and lean away, but instead felt his grip tighten on me with alarming ferocity.

"Nothin' of the sort, 'tis you that's scared her!" he defended before turning his attention to me. My heart jumped into my throat as I stared him in the eyes, my body frozen in fear. He had striking blue eyes, and scars barely visible under the light brown of his skin. I began to crumple into my body out of instinct. His eyes traveled the length of my bosom.

Before the conversation could go any further, one of the others, a leather-clad elf to my left, shoved him hard and released his grip on me.

"Leave her be, Sabine," he smiled, though his tone carried a warning as he stared at my captor. I turned to the elf; his dark eyes smiled at me.

"Forgive my friend," he chuckled. "He is a bit… how we say-" he paused, trying to conjure the word with his hand, "well, a bit _drunk_ is the best way I could describe." I felt eased by his kind laughter, and bared a small but thankful smile to him before bowing and scurrying back to the stairs.

I took shelter in one of the vacant rooms upstairs. Though we were forbidden to stay inside without a patron, I could not stomach the thought of facing the same men to sneak my way back to the servants' quarters for the night. The room was dark and empty, a welcome relief from the thick crowd downstairs. I sighed, and slumped down against the bed post to sit on the floor.

As the evening wore on, I listened with twitching, nervous ears as footsteps grew louder, as did voices, then passed by and faded down the hall. Happy soldiers and drunken men were led back to their rooms by accompanying whores, and through the splintered wood door I could hear their hushed murmurs pass by me.

Only when the noise downstairs had faded and the last footsteps receded from earshot did my frantic heart slow to a calm thrum. I breathed deep and shut my eyes, pressing cold fingertips to my chest to listen. I prayed to Andraste to wrap her arms around me, and to protect me by the shadow of her hands.

The door burst open suddenly, breaking me out of my thoughts to witness a shadow looming in the doorway. My stomach lurched and blood ran cold as I made out the face of the elf from earlier - the one who had helped me. His eyes were cold with a hunger I dare not learn. I struggled for breath as I clambered to stand, fearful eyes never leaving his approaching figure.

He said nothing, and instead slammed the door behind him and stalked across the room to where I stood. I felt the wood of the bedpost press painfully between my shoulder blades. I couldn't back away any further, and relented to wrapping my shaking hands around the frame of the bed. I looked into his dark eyes and found a vicious predator.

Without warning, he grabbed me by the jaw and forced his mouth on mine. I gave a muffled yelp, and instinctively shoved him away. He stumbled back across the room and stood there, waiting. Prowling. I made my way around the bed and backed up against the far wall for protection. Brief anger surfaced in his eyes, then pleasure as he regarded me with a dark grin.

I saw him advancing towards me, but never the moment when he reached me. Instead, I raised my shaking hands in terror and squeezed my eyes shut, praying that the Maker would forgive me. Light flashed behind the dark of my lids, and my attacker let out a shout of pain, followed by a tremendous _thump! _I opened my eyes, vision blurred by the start of tears, to find his body crumpled on the ground and limbs twisted at unnatural angles. A blue glow surrounded his body - his empty eyes stared up at me, questioning and lost.

"Andraste forgive me," I trembled as the sobs began to bubble in my throat. The door swung open once again, and I knew then that I would die. There is no mercy for those that speak. If you should step into the light, your retribution would be in your death - a slow, painful, and tortured journey into the dark. There lies a place where the Maker does not hear your screams.

I fell to my knees, eyes filled with obscuring tears, and looked up to the one that would kill me. I raised my shaking arms, palms pressed together as I awaited for death. I had done wrong, and I was to be punished. I had taken a life, and so - in exchange - I was to give mine. I awaited the steel of a blade to my neck. Instead, he reached out a hand and touched my face. His fingertips were rough and cold against my skin. I did not feel afraid as I had before, but instead - comforted. I shut my eyes and let the air rush out of my lungs, and with it all of my fear and doubt.

"Hush now," he told me, and so I did. I rose to my feet, led by the gentle urge of his hand until I leveled with his gaze. A hood obscured his features, and in the veil of shadows his face was all but impossible to find amidst the darkness.

He chuckled and a sharp sensation struck my chest. I felt winded, though I had not run, and my nerves stood on edge, though I did not fear him. Trust swelled in my chest; I did not know this man. I felt my heart tugging towards him, as if he held a string attached through my bodice. In that moment, I felt completely alone in the shadow of his gaze.

"What do you want of me?" I asked; I had remained silent for six months. Though I did not understand why, this man, this creature in shadow produced from me a longing for acceptance I had not known before. I swallowed the hesitation in my voice and stepped forward, needing to prove my worth to him. I bowed, low and graciously, before rising once more to my feet. "I am Kaidasa Surana, _il mio salvatore_," I spoke with respect, nodding my head.

"It is an honor to hear a slave tell me their true name," he answered. His voice was deep and harsh, yet warmed my chest with each word spoken. I blinked, breathing in deep, and tried once more to shape out a face from the darkness. In that same moment, he flashed his hand in front of me and a light sprang awake. I jolted and spun around to find a lit candle sitting on the nightstand. Startled, I turned back to find his hood gone, and his fire-bright eyes looking directly into mine. Behind him stood the lingering eyes of his followers in the dark. My heart leapt into my throat as I realized that my savior was none other than my smiling patron - the man of shadows.

"Andraste's grace-" I said breathlessly, "forgive me, ser." I dropped immediately to my knees and pressed my forehead against the floorboard. I felt a hand, again, gently touch under my chin and guide me back up to my feet. I stood and - breathing shallow and light - dared steal another look.

His amber eyes were fierce, but filled with a mysterious wisdom; he looked at me not with the eyes of a wolf, but of a creature of understanding, perceiving the inner workings of a counterpart. I felt naked before his eyes, yet protected.

His dark brown skin was decorated by blackened ash and red markings strewn over his face and arms. His hair, though shaved on either side, crested across his head in a clawing, ink-black wave that draped just shy of his jaw. He wore various fangs and small bones in his ears and as jewelry. He along with his men were dressed in crude leather armor and covered in fur. I looked back into his eyes with a small intake of breath.

"Y-You're Chasind," I whispered. He stepped forward into the candlelight, further magnifying the image of his face. I was tempted to step back, but instead remained frozen to my spot, both fearful and captivated. My eyes stayed locked on him for the singular reason I rested between the spaces on either side of his head.

"You're an elf," I added, as if not believing it myself. He was far too tall and broad to be an elf, and had skin thick like leather hide. He smiled at me then, and for a moment I forgot my fear. His fingertips brushed the side of my face.

"And you are a mage, as am I," he said. Fear returned as I was reminded of my crime, and quickly filled with a deep dread that settled in the pit of my stomach.

Before I could conjure up a possible plea for his protection, for _anything_ he might do to help me, he spoke in my stead. His eyes spoke an intimate conversation between us both so that no others could hear.

"I have watched you, Kaidasa," he murmured into my ear. The others stood in the doorway, absent of our exchange but wary. I let out a trembled breath as the heat of his voice stung my ear. I clasped my hands to my chest. "You now belong to me," he whispered.

"My Kaidasa…" he smiled, leaning away.

And without a single murmur of respite, I knew it to be the truth. In that moment, he became my master, and I found a reason to speak. I found a purpose. From that day he carried me away from my Antiva, and deep into wilds I had never known, and I became his. I became Kaidasa the light, slave of my savior - the beloved of Mahiel the Devourer.


	42. Demons

As I stepped up to the glowing pedestal, I looked once more back to Irving. Though he had expressed his concern before the ceremony, there was a distinct sense of urgency and worry to his face. I did not have the luxury of asking him about it before the Commander demanded we move on.

Greagoir was not here.

Sick to my stomach and worried over my templar's whereabouts, I took the final step towards the blue, glowing pool of light that filled the altar. I looked down at my wrists, barely concealed beneath the fabric of my robes. I had done my best to cover up the fresh scars inflicted upon me by the nameless monster the night before, but they cut as deeply as the ones before. Despite this, I was disgusted to find that my old wounds already shown so terribly still there was little to no difference from what he'd done to me in the abandoned tower chamber. I still couldn't break through the fog of my mind to recall a clear timeline of what had proceeded, and the vague memory of it scared me more than anything.

I couldn't remember what happened. Only a foggy dream of the night I met him remained in my immediate conscious.

With doubt lacing my mind and fear trembling on my fingertips, I reached out and touched the lyrium. Immediately I lost all sense of the world around me; my body went numb, and vision faded into black.

I opened my eyes and saw a blurry shape emerging from the endless abyss. A flame, at first, then it grew until I could make out the shape of a body. She approached me weightlessly, her fire-hair cascading behind her in a purple glow. Her eyes were black and smile poisoned. She reached out a sharp claw and touched my chin.

Chains twisted around my limbs and pulled me taut before I could fight back. I hung in the nothing, helpless. I tried to open my mouth to scream but silence came out. Panicked, I began to thrash and shout soundless pleas for help.

The demon creature sauntered closer to me with a chuckle, then touched my lips.

"I am your voice now," she purred in a two-toned voice. Her voice was as sweet as my master's, if not sweeter. Her otherwise naked form was decorated by dripping jewels of every sort, and spiked tail whipped out behind her. She hung in the air beside me, delighted by my immobility. Her claws dug deeper into my face until blood appeared. She grinned a wide-fanged smile.

"You are mine now, elf!" she screeched, then abruptly wrenched her hand away and plunged both arms into my chest. A searing, white-hot pain filled my body as I her claws pierced my flesh and grabbed my soul within. I screamed until my voice finally broke through and spilled into the blackness in a shrill, terrifying shout.

I felt my entire body being split in two. Blood boiled in my veins, ribs snapped and broke apart, and flesh felt as if it was slowly being torn apart by the seams. Her claws twisted deeper until she was submerged up to her elbows. I screamed until my throat turned raw, and continued screaming even when the blood began to bubble in my throat.

My pain turned to horror as I witnessed her purple flesh beginning to merge with my own. Skin melded together like liquid, and the more I struggled to pull away the more our bodies fused. Panic overwhelmed me as I threw all my weight against the chains in an attempt to break free. I arched my back in a last attempt and let out a terrible scream, convulsing and twisting to get away.

The next moments I only recall in horrible flashes of memory. Though I returned to the waking world, my body was not my own. I stood as nothing more than a bystander to the destruction my possessed body wreaked. She went for the commander first, plucking him from among the others and tearing his head from his body. The other templars ran in the first direction they could find, though Irving and the First Enchanter attempted to fight her.

I screamed in vain for her to stop, though she would not listen. Her claws raked across the First Enchanter's chest, and Irving retreated back to where her torn body had fallen. The demon wasted no time over the stragglers, but instead headed straight downstairs to the third floor where the templars' dorm resided. Templars fell before her like rag dolls, tossed and ripped to pieces until only scattered body parts remained.

To my horror, a select few she lifted from the ground and sucked their souls right from their bodies. What was left I could only describe as lifeless husks. A path of fire and destruction marked where she had been, and by the time the demon reached the first floor half of the tower had been massacred.

I begged her to leave them be - she could take me if she wanted but leave the rest of them alone. Though I had not seen him amongst their scarred, twisted faces, I dreaded that she would find him in the tower and take all that was left of me.

Like a beacon of light she turned her interest quite abruptly to the stairs that led down to the basement dungeons. She tore the large doors from their hinges and cast the splintered wood aside. Down below the world was quiet and damp, vastly different from the chaos and screams that reigned above. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest as I witnessed her glide to the floor and place her feet upon them. I had no conceivable way to take back control of my body - I was trapped within, helpless and terrified as I watched her kill those I held dear.

"Why are you doing this?" I begged through my sobs. She smiled then, and turned towards a door at the end of a chamber. I felt a sudden throb in my chest, and gasped. As she stepped towards the hallway, the sensation echoed again in the root of my body. She was thrilled by the sensation as well, and continued towards it until I felt a steady thrum run through us both.

An unknowing dread began to creep into my body as I watched her slowly push open the barred door. Another long chamber stretched out before us, lined on each side with the rusted iron bars of prison cells.

"No, go back," I told her. The strange pulse turned into a steady thrumming in my chest. She took a wary step closer and tapped her claws against the stone walls - my hands, twisted into a half-form of a demon. Maker, I had become exactly what the templars feared. How could I have so easily let a demon take control of me?

The more I receded, the closer she moved down the cells until I felt like the pulsing would burst from my veins. She turned and faced him curled up in the cell, cradling a glowing vial like a newborn child. My heart stopped.

"No," I whispered, low and throaty. Tears filled my eyes as I looked upon his startled face and recognized the fear. "No, _stay away from him!_" I screamed at her. If there was a breath left in my body, I would not dare let her steal him from me. Not him.

I surged forward with every bit of strength I could muster, and felt my vision lurch. She stumbled forward. I paused in my shock, then looked down at my hands. She raised them.

"You will not have him," I continued, angry tears staining my cheeks. I surged forward again with every ounce of my willpower until my body felt it would snap in half. Screaming, I felt the pressure leave and my body was flung to the floor. She fell to her knees and began to scream and wretch. Greagoir stood now, and placed himself against the far wall with arms outstretched.

She began to flail and kick anything within her vicinity. Her claws lashed out and caught the bars. She twisted around and hit the floor, screaming, then stood again and fell against the prison gate. The metal began to bend into itself like paper the louder she screamed. The sound was so shrill and high I could hardly stand it, but continued fighting against her. Pain struck every chord in my body, and I could feel my muscles and flesh tearing apart at the seams.

After a sharp white-hot pain, I felt the numbness leave my fingers. The stone beneath me was cold, and the air warm against my sweat-blanketed body. I was breathing heavy and fast and shaking so badly I could hardly keep myself steady.

"K-Kaida..sa?" Greagoir trembled. I looked up with hazy, surreal eyes to his form still plastered against the wall. The world around me lurched through a black, glowing tunnel vision. I reached out a hand towards Greagoir, but he recoiled in fear.

I looked down at my hands and shaped out the black-tipped purple claws and scales that blended in with my skin. Blood covered them. I fell back on my heels and looked at my sinful hands, shaking. My eyes returned to Greagoir, who looked horrified as he regarded my blood-stained, mutilated form. Guilt overwhelmed me, and before I could think I stumbled to my feet and ran away from him as fast as my feet could carry me.

I ran from the tower and never looked back.


	43. The Knight Commander

As the screams and shouts grew louder, so did the pressing need to escape crawl under my skin. Unfamiliar tears sprang into my eyes as I heard another explosion shake the walls above me, followed by the gruesome sound of dying bodies. I could do nothing from where I stood, yet never before had I felt such a distinct sense of fear that begged for self-preservation. I was trapped, whether or not I wanted to be, and soon whatever monster trampled above would find me and wreak havoc on my soul.

Despite this, my only thoughts were for Kaidasa. Maker forbid, as I heard the creature move closer to the chamber I dreaded the worst - that my nightmares had come true, and before me walked a puppet of my beloved mageling. The noise steadily grew worse until debris and dust began to crumble from my prison walls.

Chanting a low, guttural prayer under my breath, I fell to my knees and hugged the phylactery to my body. I prayed to Andraste that she would be kept safe. I begged the Maker for mercy - to forgive my folly. Should I escape this alive and find her, I would follow in his footsteps for the rest of my life. I would lay down my life and cause in the name of Andraste. Just let her be safe.

As I conjured between pleas for redemption and fervent prayer I heard the tell-tale crack of broken wood. The monster had found me finally, and would tear me apart before I ever got the chance to find her. I stood to my feet to face my fate, still clutching her phylactery, and heard the jail door thrown open. Bare, slow foosteps echoed down the empty stone hall, and as I took in a breath - I looked up to meet the eyes of my maker.

Kaidasa stood before me, a twisted creature of her former self. Empty, black eyes stared at me through the strands of weightless raven hair. Her skin looked bruised, though as she stepped closer I saw they were scales emerging from beneath her pale skin. I had the sudden urge to vomit, and stumbled back when her eyes set upon the prize clutched in my grasp.

I was shaking so badly I could not think to defend myself. She reached out for the door, then suddenly drew back with a pained expression. The phylactery grew suddenly hot in my hand. I shouted when I felt it begin to burn my palm, and on instinct released the boiling vial. It dropped to the floor and shattered at my feet.

Startled, I looked back up from the smoking, red stain to observe the demon before me. She screamed and began to twist and crumple into her own form. The bars of my cage crumbled into themselves like paper. I had to crush my hands over my ears to block out the horrible shrieks of the creature. Even so, I could not bear the sound and fell to my knees in pain.

After a few more horrible screams, she fell to her knees in front of the wreckage that had been my prison. I opened my eyes and removed my hands, staring at her in horror. Smoke rose from her body, and under the blood stains I could see her flesh was her own once more. For a moment I forgot what I'd seen, and reached out a trembling hand.

"K-Kadai..sa?" I dared ask. The woman I knew, the sweet and soft-hearted mage I had grown fond of was not present when the creature raised its head. Glowing, white eyes stared at me - confused - before standing to its feet. Though she looked so terribly frightened, I could not bring myself to take a step forward. Fear set into my heart like a knife, and whenever she reached out a hand for me I saw that it was still the claws of the demon, and pulled away.

She regarded her own hands with the fear of a child. Then, looking back up to me with a sadness I could not fathom, she turned and ran from me. My Kaidasa left.

By the time the shock subsided, she had long disappeared from my sight. One of the guards told me she had ran through the front gates without stopping, then dove right into the lake and disappeared into the fog. I said nothing when the men arrived to help me out of the prison rubble. Though shaken, I was otherwise unharmed.

I walked the halls with them as a ghost. Echoes of wounded templar and magi alike filled the halls like the cries of forsaken ghouls. Blood splatters and limbs marked the path where she had been, and the further up the tower I walked the more deadened my body became.

It was when we finally reached the Harrowing chamber and I looked upon the mangled form of my headless commander that it sunk in. Irving knelt in the corner over the bleeding remains of our First Enchanter, still trying to heal a body long absent of its soul. Something shut off inside of me, and as I turned to my subordinates I felt any possibly remnants of sorrow disappear completely. Cold, relentless guilt remained, burrowing deep into my chest as the metal of a blade. There it would remain.

_I have made a mistake._

The commander was right, as he had always been. Many times I had listened to his droning concerns of the tower's safety. Many times I had ignored his angry pleas to not let a mage get the best of me. I had chosen exile of my own people, and in turn I now regarded their blood on my hands as a reminder of what I had failed to do. My faceless gaze turned to the remaining men now gathered in the chamber, some still written by the raw horror of what they had witnessed.

I would never doubt again.

"Ser," they repeated. I had not been listening. I turned my attention to one of the men standing at my side - a lieutenant by the name of Henry. I waited for his response, bereft of words.

"Ser… the Commander is dead," he echoed in a dull, strained voice. I looked back to the decapitated corpse of my leader, then back at the boy with a frown.

"I can see that," I ground out. A twinge prodded the back of my mind, though I ignored it. A chill swept over my body. In the distance of the third floor, a distinctly female cry wept over a lost lover. The sound filled the chamber. I did not move, though a few of the men shifted in their stance.

"Do you not realize?" he continued. I felt my patience snapping, the hysteria threatening to overtake me and relent with the hate burning in my hands. Clenching my fists, I stared down at the bloody stone floor and forced the emotions back down. My heart thundered in my chest.

"Ser… you're Knight-Commander now."


	44. Last Stand

The city was quiet at night. Without the shuffle of my templar armor, it grew to a deadly stillness. I shrugged off the invisible weight I was so accustomed to, and felt the freedom of my shoulders under a light brown tunic instead. My envy of lesser men's comforts was quickly forgotten, however, as I approached the looming gates of the Alienage. Two guards stationed outside jumped to life as they straightened to face me and aim their spears at my throat. I fell an inch from their blunted tips, hardly managing an irritable snort before pushing one aside with my finger. I raised my sword.

"I am Knight-Commander Greagoir from the Circle of Magi. Let me pass," I commanded the two inexperienced youths. Both guards recoiled in confusion while attempting to shape my face out in the darkness, and took a step closer.

"I'm sorry ser," one corrected himself, "we are only allowed to let pass those on official business in the Alienage at this hour." He nodded toward the gates and added, "S'dangerous at night.." as an afterthought. I felt a twinge of impatience catch at my throat as I sheathed my sword again and heaved a sigh.

"Then by order of the Chantry, I demand you open this gate for the threat of an abomination and wanted maleficar being held within your walls," I snapped. A new breed of terror streaked across both of the men's faces as they turned and looked at me.

"An a-abomination?" one choked out, disbelieving. My gaze narrowed.

"If you refuse my order, I will assume you are attempting to assist her, so if you are quite done I should like to return to my duties. Open the gate," I demanded with a low, steady voice.

Neither guard argued, and seconds later were rushing to raise the iron gates high enough to allow me to pass. I stepped into the chill of night crowding the empty bridge, and offered one last withering look to the startled guards before continuing my journey across the stone archway and into the confines of the elven district of Denerim.

I had never opted reason or purpose to step upon this threshold. I was told stories of a dark and filthy place, full of the stains of society-a great division of the races by means of a dirty hog pen. The air felt stagnant and thickened by a long-festered animal left to rot on the street, and it was just as well I nearly tripped over a dead dog on the way in. I had to force himself not to think of the overwhelming stink lest I dry heave.

The entire Alienage itself was a great pen, with walls bordering all sides to herd its livestock into cages. The sensation was a familiar one, and a bitter, sobering reminder of why she must've chosen such a place.

_Just can't get away from it, can you?_

I felt a creeping need to brush an invisible filth off of my skin the further I made my way through the tightly enclosed dirt streets of the Alienage. Faint sobs and low, guttural groans faded in the distance, almost as if ghosts haunted the streets of this miserable place, echoing their despair and pain to their fellow kin. The sounds themselves were eerie, and forcibly reminded me to tighten my cloak around my shoulders as I ducked low into the camouflaged darkness of a narrow alley and continued.

I passed a beggar huddled between two hut-like buildings with only a ragged blanket wrapped around bony, bare shoulders for warmth. His gaze was empty and gray-full of an unsettling pain and blissful ignorance I could relate to a many lost templar from the addicting power of lyrium. This old man was no templar, but a blind, old elf on his last leg. I could not even will himself to feel sorry for the creature; prolonging his agony with a piece of bread or coin seemed crueler than letting him die. Confusion began to stir in my heart as I rushed past the man who began to quietly cry, and I wondered, darkly, how someone could willingly do this to another.

_This is no time to dawdle.._

I had to force the issues to the back of my mind or I would lose my head completely. I had come here for one reason, and one reason only. The issue of the Alienage itself was a battle I had not the heart or mind to fight, and Maker forgive me I could care less right now. Someone else would have to take up that banner.

I tugged the hood of my cloak tighter around my face out of habit as I became increasingly aware of the blank, hungry stares of night-dwelling residents peering at me from the shadows of alleyways and abandoned buildings. They looked like starved, stray dogs, with their bony knuckles and glistening eyes the only thing visible against dull firelight of some odd corners of alleyways where packs of them huddled together in the darkness. It unsettled me, and made my skin crawl the more their eyes followed my hooded figure, knowing me, piercing me with invasive stares.

With only my tunic and cloak for protection, I felt the chill of wind biting at my skin. It had been such a long while since I'd stepped out into the fresh air, too afraid to leave the confines of the Tower for more than one reason. Out here, everything was far too abrasive and excessive. The noise and smells and startling clarity of the outside world made me feel entirely closed in. It took a lot of willpower to resist the urge to cringe at each new blast of wind or crackle of a fireplace as I passed. Every sound heightened in my ears, forcing me on a knife's edge paranoia as I jumped at the sound of a distant shout and ducked into an alleyway. Maker's blood, how could anyone stand this noise on a day-to-day basis?

Part of me hoped, even prayed to Andraste that she wasn't here. Maker, _anywhere _but this forsaken, disgusting place. The mortal side of me couldn't bear the thought of imagining the woman I knew to be Kaidasa in such a hollow, broken hell as this. The other part wished for her death, prayed by some unspeakable hope that I would find her corpse instead so that I would not have to face her. My steely conviction was now wavering on a paper-thin surface that reminded me of my human fear and uncertainty the closer I stepped to death, and ultimately to her. I questioned my ability to face the woman I hunted, the woman I hated, and the woman I had loved with every part of my soul. My mercy had been my greatest mistake, and nothing but the seal of her death would be able to relinquish such a sin.

The question was… could I strike her down when the moment came?

I felt sick just thinking about it, and shook my head in attempts to clear my thoughts. I had to do this, for the Maker and for my former Commander. No amount of sweet poison from her lips would sway me; the woman I hunted was no longer Kaidasa. She was an abomination, and I would see that in the end. I had to.

_Greagoir…_

Her voice, faint but familiar, echoed in my ears. A well-remembered, quiet whisper I had long forgotten after six years or silence. I had gone mad.

_Greagoir… _she whispered again somewhere to my left. My chest jumped and heart thrashed as I jolted from the sound, entirely caught off guard, and swung around to search for the source of the whisper. Blackness spread in every direction around me as far as I could see, only disrupted by the muddy outlines of shadowed buildings and debris scattered on the street way. Panic rose in my chest as I turned in a full circle, scouring madly through the darkness for movement, anything, to tell me I was not losing my mind.

"Where are you!?" I shouted, desperate to rid himself of my terror, needing to physically see her, touch her, know I hadn't finally plummeted off the edge of sanity. I heard her laughter ring sweetly in the distance, still unable to determine the source. I stumbled blindly into a narrow alleyway as the voice grew louder, bolder, and began to taunt me.

_I'm here… here, love.._

"_Where!?" _I shouted again, my fear turning into desperation as I stumbled and clawed my way through a dark, abandoned building. Her voice was fading, leaving me again. I had to hold onto it, had to see her, find her before I lost her again.

"Damn it where are you?!" I didn't care who heard, didn't care if I attracted any unwanted company for my shouting. I would cut down any blasted fool that dared step in my way now, not when I was so close, a breath away from being able to see her again.

My ragged gasps of breath nearly turned into sobs as I stumbled into an empty courtyard walled in on all sides by abandoned houses. At the center of the lawn I came to a dead halt and stared up at the sky where a weak, sliver of a moon cut through the black clouds for a brief second, then disappeared again behind shadows. I panted for breath, my head ringing. She was here, she had to be.

I thrust around in a wide, violent arc, trying to find reason in the shadows, make out a figure in the darkness. When I found none, I let out a gritted yell of frustration and began to stalk about the courtyard, my sword in hand. She wanted me here, she wanted me lost and I knew it. Like a fool I followed, and now I was walled in on all sides like a caged dog waiting for an invisible foe to appear. Frustration began to itch at my fingertips, begging me to just stick my sword in anything, anyone in the shadows.

"I know you are here, so come find me," I snarled under my breath through gritted teeth while coming to a standstill near a rotted staircase of an empty building. I had heard her, the secretive witch, I knew I had! She was here, she had to be.

"I know you hear me, Kaidasa…" I murmured to himself while scanning the open courtyard again. The longer I stood in the silence talking to himself, the more foolish I felt. She would destroy me, through silence and absence alone this woman would be the undoing of me. I could not fight the enemy of absence, not with a thousand swords or shouts. Frustrated, desperate tears pricked at my eyes as I tightened the grip on my sword and fell to my knees.

"_Please, hear me…"_ I begged to the invisible plague of my conscious. "I have searched for you.. for six years. _Six years_, wondering if you are alive or dead." my voice began to tremble as I felt himself unraveling, slipping away from the ground and unable to steady himself. I shuddered on my breath.

"Andraste help me, take this _festering _wound from me, _please_…" I whispered into my hands, "take away my sympathy. Let me be _rid_ of you, for Maker's sake I can't _do_ this anymore.."

As I raised my red, damp eyes to the dark sky, I felt the last strands of my hope draining, bleached out by a midnight sun. My heart had not the strength nor burden to carry this anymore; let her be dead, just let me _know_. It's all I could manage to beg for, all I could hope for in that moment of pure abandon and loss.

Just as if awoken from a dream and into another familiar nightmare, my eyes fell back on the open courtyard to find a figure standing at the center, cloaked in red. I dare not let a breath escape my body as I stared, and studied the figure with mistrusting, shocked eyes. My heart stopped at the sight of a pale-white, feminine hand raised into the brief moonlight to beckon me. The split-second light swept across her figure, and for a moment a drape of long, black hair cushioned the glint of a familiar silver symbol of Andraste around the woman's neck.

A dozen cold stones plummeted into my chest and fell deep down into the pit of my stomach, unable to take in the sight, and unable to process or believe any of it for the precious seconds she stood in the moonlight. Before my shock could subside long enough to help my numb limbs into action, she turned and dispersed into the darkness as easily as a ghost. My heart pounded in my throat as I scrambled to my feet and broke into a run after her.

"W-WAIT!" I screamed, reaching out a hand after the emptiness where she had stood previously. A flash in the shadows turned my attention to another empty building where I saw the fringes of a red cloak disappear, and like a blind, lost puppy I propelled after her, sheathing my sword as I ducked into the shadowed building.

My ragged breath pounded in my ears along with my thrashing heart. This was another dream, another of thousands of torture-some nightmares I'd been forced to relive for six years. Surely, no this couldn't possibly be true; this couldn't be her, would never-

My thoughts halted as I came to a dead stop outside of a doorway, not sure what caused the abrupt change but unable to continue running. I stared, confused, and stole a glance back down the hallway before turning my attention to the aged, rickety doorway. It creaked and slowly fell open, causing me to jump back in my fright and draw my sword. The door inched its way until it lay wide open to me, inviting me in and daring me to step forth.

My slurred senses began to clear as I took another frightful step back, feeling the sensation of danger chilling my skin. My grip tightened around the hilt of my sword as I breathed in a final, slow, and steady breath then stepped into the pitch blackness of the room. The wooden floors groaned beneath me with age as I stepped in, trying to see through the solid wall of darkness and unable to adjust quickly enough. I felt a whip of breeze behind me as the door slammed shut and clicked in what sounded like a lock. Panic shot through my chest.

Seconds later a bloom of light materialized from the far end of the room and washed over the darkness to reveal the shadows beneath it. I strained my eyes against the harsh and abrupt change, blinking away the astonishment as I turned slow, startled eyes to the figure standing across the room. My breath hitched in my throat as I took a stumbling step backward and felt my back hit the door. I couldn't breathe.

She was… _there_. Standing right in front of me.

"K-Kaidasa..?" I breathed, but the moment the fragile words uttered from my lips my mind rejected it. This woman was a phantom, a plague haunting my dreams, a nightmare from a long-forgotten realm of my past I dare not remember. This was impossible. She wasn't real… she was. Here.

"No need to corner me, I don't intend to leave," she sighed. Her voice was dry and weary beyond its age, yet still held a familiar kindness to it that pierced through my chest. I sunk down against the doorway, just barely managing to blindly feel for a nearby crate before dropping myself down onto it and, setting my sword against the table, clutched my face in my hands and shuddered.

"You're here…" I whispered into my hands, still feeling that instantaneous twinge of rejection from my mind as I heard myself say the words. "Six years, and you've been here all this time…" I murmured, my voice wavering to a nearly-shaken sob. She stayed anchored to her spot across the room, and from between the confines of my hands I saw her shadow move across the other corner of the room.

I tried desperately to pull myself together, but the moment I managed to string my conscious mind back into a state of sanity, it all came crashing back down with every little sound she made, every movement I caught out of the corner of my eye, and each agonizing word spoken as if six years had not passed. Was this a trick?

"I am sorry.." she began, then stopped herself short when nothing else formed to finish the sentence. I blinked reddened eyes up as a sharp pang clutched my chest when I met her face. She was as physical and real as the day I met her, standing across the room from me with a world-weary sadness on her face. It was all too much to take in, and I nearly put my head between my knees to stop myself from vomiting. I felt weak and sick, unable to do much other than try and steady myself on the crate while clutching my head.

"H-How…" I tried, but the words broke off into another dry, withering sob. I couldn't even bear to look at her, the sight was a pain to my eyes, stabbing knives into my chest and crushing me under the weight of a hundred stones. Her form was painful to me, and suddenly I wanted nothing more than to be away from her, out of this cramped room and as far away as possible. I shrank and recoiled at every small movement she made, terrified she might make a step closer and break the last threads of my soul in half with a simple touch of her hand. It was too much.

"Would you like some water?" she offered, holding out a jug. I could only shake my head and weakly wave her away, unable to look up. Unable to glance at her again. She faltered and fell back on her heel before setting the jug down.

"I suppose… there's no room for casualties now," she said quietly. The turmoil within my mind began to slowly, achingly ebb its way down from the emotional high until I didn't feel like I was toppling off an endless abyss and could think clearly. I felt the impulsive, pressuring need to look at her, and to make sure I wasn't dreaming - if I looked up again, it would mean she was real. This was not a nightmare. I had truly found her. Kaidasa.

"Here… all this time," I repeated. I didn't know if it was a question or an answer. I saw her shape moving out of the corner of my eye, but still couldn't will the courage to look, though I desperately wanted to. She was pulling a blanket over something. My attention rapidly shifted as I watched the bulk beneath the blanket stir, then grow still. My stomach turned over.

"Y-Your.." I stuttered, but couldn't form the words to say it. Again, instinctive rejection slammed in my mind, but then I saw a small hand emerge from under the blanket. Shock overwhelmed me, swallowed me up until I couldn't breath.

"..My daughter," she finished in an empty whisper. Betrayal slammed into me like a brick wall. Her _daughter_. The very word horrified me, poisoned me with sudden anger and jealousy that I knew had no rightful place in my heart. I worked my expression into a disgusted snarl, then gave up entirely when it all became too much to handle. I did not have the strength to fight this battle, if it was one at all. I could not stand up.

"You must know who her father is," she cut into my thoughts like a knife, searing back open the wound she had only just inflicted. I burst from my seat in a fit of anger and kicked the crate against the wall, sending it crashing against the doorway with a crack of splintered wood. Kaidasa jumped.

"No, I don't!" I shouted before jerking myself back around to lean against the doorway and bury my face into my arm, trying to breath, trying to calm himself before I lost control. Anger and confusion boiled up inside of me, ready to burst from my chest. I gritted my teeth and breathed out in loud, trembling shudders, listening to the pounding of my heart to keep in control. I didn't understand..

"Please," she begged, sending my mind into further turmoil. She was drawing closer, her scent closer. No, she wasn't real. She couldn't be, not like this, not here… this was worse than any nightmare because it was reality. I couldn't face it. Not after this.

"Greagoir, please," she whispered again. Her voice was weak and helpless, banking on the sincerity she knew of me too well. I squeezed my eyes shut to block her out, and rid himself of the emotions already churning to the surface again. I felt her hand on my bare arm, and in my panic I jolted and flung her away as if scalded. Wild, accusing eyes locked on her as I stumbled into a corner of the room and plastered myself against the wall, absolutely petrified. The moment I caught my fatal error, I knew it was already too late. My eyes were locked on her, unable to look away as I took in the sight of the woman I once loved for the first time in six years.

Her skin, which had once been a glowing white of the moon, was now a scarred and ashen gray. Her body was frail and weak, and marred by dirt, scars, and other obscenities that did not belong. The once flowing gowns she had embellished at the tower were gone, replaced by rags that hung off her body in shapeless, lumpy masses. My eyes traveled over her, greedy and horrified by the sight as I matched this frail, broken woman to the image I once knew. She had decayed, and with her torn soul she reflected exactly what I had imagined in my most colorful nightmares, that of a creature bound to the ashen corpse of a once beautiful woman. The sight of her shot stricken grief into my heart, too ashamed to stare too long at what was left of my Kaidasa.

_Maker… what have I done to you?_

As I leveled my pained gaze to her face, I was met by a pair of cold, empty eyes long filmed over by her suffering. They were sightless eyes, stained with foreign tears that suddenly didn't make sense. This creature before me, this obscenity… it had destroyed what was left of my Kaidasa long ago. The remaining shards were simple fragments of a mimicked soul, and nothing more. What stood before me, with agonizing features and marred, heartless eyes was not Kaidasa. I fought wildly against the guilt and torment clawing at my heart at this sight, this unforgivable wretchedness meant to taunt me and show me the destruction I'd left the love of my life to.

"Mahiel is her father," she finished in an empty voice. The tears on her face did not match the blank stare of her eyes, yet I could hardly bear to watch as she fell apart right in front of me. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to will the words away, but they burned into my memory with an iron rod, forever etched there to taunt me with my mistakes. My failures.

"Mahiel…" I echoed, though the name was a vile in my throat. A snarl pulled at my lips as I rubbed the bridge of my nose between my fingers and tried to breath. "H-How?" I forced the question past my lips, a dead weight on my ears, though I didn't want to know. I opened my eyes again to find the same grief in her eyes, and decidedly turned my confused gaze to the sleeping bundle across the room. A head of dark hair peeked out from under the surface, and I fleetingly wondered for a split second if she had her mother's blue eyes as well.

"The eve before my Harrowing," Kaidasa finished after a pause. Another knife to my heart, a stab of guilt to my core. The same night I'd risked my reputation and life to sneak into the basement and destroy her phylactery.. what a fool I'd been. If I had been there, if I hadn't left, she wouldn't have-

I tensed my expression to keep her from seeing the pain violently thrust to the surface. The room was beginning to blur.

"He appeared in my chambers as a shadow and-"

"Please, stop.." I begged while holding up one weak hand. My eyes traveled to hers. "No more," I murmured. My voice came out in a brittle, hoarse whisper, and reflected deeply into the weary lines of my face, now marred by the world's grief after so many years. My hair was gray, and face scarred by lines too aged for me. I frowned and dropped my hand back down, weary.

"What is her name?" I mustered after letting the disbelief subside.

"Isthalla," she breathed as I turned to look at the small, helpless bundle wrapped up on the cot. A touch of life came back to Kaidasa's voice as she spoke the name, warmed by her affection for her child, and for a moment I could almost forget what had happened, and forget that a demon still had control of her soul. For a moment, I wanted to imagine taking her and her daughter and leaving the Alienage, to become a the young boy again wanting to whisk her away into the countryside and live together without jurisdiction.

The weight of reality fell heavily upon my shoulders, however, as I turned to look into the dead eyes of a long-tortured woman in pain. I could not let this cruelty go on, not a second longer. I glanced at the small girl on the cot, and frowned, considering how to make such a difficult decision over a simple child. I swallowed the grief back down in my chest as I looked to Kaidasa.

"Kaidasa, I cannot let her live-" I started, but jumped when she abruptly stepped between me and her daughter and spread her arms wide, a snarl on her lips.

"Do what you must, but you will not touch my child," she bristled. I stepped back in slight alarm as I considered the terrible, protective anger across her face. She was suddenly too much like herself again, willing to sacrifice everything yet protect the innocent with every breath left in her body. A pang of guilt shot through my chest.

"P-Please," she whispered through brimming tears, "not her, Greagoir."

I stared into the eyes of not a monster, but a wounded mother begging for mercy. My heart dropped, and after a long pause, I breathed out a quiet, "Okay.." and stepped back.

"Kaidasa," I tried after a pause while looking about the shack. The idea of leaving a motherless child, and a daughter no less, in this place seemed…ruthless. The image of the almost creature-like elves huddling in the darkness outside was enough to send me into a shudder. I did not wish that type of pain upon a child, and did not see a safe ending for such an innocent, helpless thing. I frowned and let out a weary sigh, shaking my head. "I can't… leave her to this. To leave her, defenseless, in this wretched place is a fate crueler than death," I tried in earnest, wanting for her see my side of logic.

Kaidasa, however, bristled up as fiercely as a wild dog and bared a snarl at me, again asserting her authority over the situation. "No, you will not take her from me, Greagoir. Not her; she is innocent, and _she will live_." She shook with the emotions of her words, tears stinging her eyes.

The vindictiveness in her voice was almost too hard to hear. I did not have the heart to tell her what usually happened to mage-born children, much less those from the Alienage. I stepped across the room to the doorway to retrieve my sword, quietly sheathing it before turning back around to face her. My face knitted together, frantic and worried.

"Is there no chance to let me try and help you, Kaidasa?" I asked, grasping for the last threads of infinitesimal hope slipping through my fingers. I needed a reason, just a word to give me meaning to help her, to try and reverse what had been done. I was scrambling for a way, any way, that could undo this scar and have her back again. I wanted to hold onto that hope she was still there somewhere under the confines of that wretched corpse of a body. A flickering, pained smile flashed across her face through tears as she stepped forward and placed a cold kiss on my cheek.

"No my templar, there is not," she said kindly, resumed to her fate. A chain locked on my heart as I fell, feeling my soul shatter against the darkness before the last pieces of her warmth shed away with slipping fingertips brushing against my jaw. She moved around me and, opening the door, stepped out into the darkness of the hallway and disappeared.

I stood in a submerged moment of shock as the wave of grief and realization hit me. Hope was no longer in her possession. She already knew her fate, and Maker forgive me... she had probably resigned herself to it many, many years ago when the last bits of her humanity died along with what had made her Kaidasa. I was killing her corpse. An abrupt sob strangled my throat as a burst of anger manifested, erupting from my arm as I reeled it back and, letting out a yell of frustration, cracked my fist into the wall. I left it there, sinking against it as a shuddering breath passed my lips.

I stood and turned to look once more at the sleeping girl, so innocently curled on the cot. I lingered on that picture and then, closing my eyes to breath in control once more, turned and followed her mother out into the courtyard and drew my sword.

"No more ruses, demon. Speak to me, I wish to see your face, not this masquerade," I bellowed across the gray lawn to where Kaidasa stood. Just as I heard the last words of my command echo through the still air, the woman before me melted away like water to reveal the true identity of the creature that had destroyed my Kaidasa.

"You are an honorable man, templar," she spoke. "Though you have a soft heart. Not many can say that." I raised my blade.

"You are the one who tore her apart, you monster," I spat. The demon tipped its head back with a laugh.

"Do you wish to know the difference between possessing a soul and devouring half of it?" she mocked, shifting between Kaidasa's voice and her own, taunting me. The anger swelled in my chest as my hands shook, trying to keep a steady hold on my sword.

"I become a part of that soul, so half of it is mine," the creature replied. "So no matter what you tell yourself, you are still killing her in cold blood, sweet templar." My eyes were beginning to blur again, shifting her figure out of my line of vision. I tried to shake my head clear and blink the tears away.

"Did you love her?" she taunted in a mocking, sweet voice. Another unearthly laugh, and I began to shudder for breath between gritted teeth.

"There's no way to save her," she said, seamlessly shifting back into the form I knew so painfully well. Her eyes remained aglow with the unnatural gaze of the demon, staring me down across the courtyard.

"Kaidasa," I pleaded, dropping my sword at my side and reaching out my hand. "N-No please, I can help you. There is a way!" I choked out, the tears stinging my eyes. Kaidasa's gaze remained empty and void of sympathy as she raised her hand.

"I am sorry, Greagoir," she said before releasing a wave of fire from the end of her hand.

Blood. Breath. I felt it soaking my chest, dripping down my forehead. Her blood. I was soaked in crimson. The souring, metallic scent of it made me sick.

I jerked back out of my daze to find my stained weapon limp in one hand and a black sky above me. A pool of blood had collected beneath the blade where the tip rested against the ground, and in front of me kneeled the woman I had once loved.

Her breath was ragged and labored; I knew she wouldn't hold out much longer, with or without the courtesy of a final cut from my blade. I stepped forward and fell on one knee in front of her. She had her head bent low, and a wall of hair prevented me from seeing her face.

"You have… gotten better," she struggled to say through wheezing, blood-drowned gasps for air. I furrowed my brow and tried to focus. A dry sob wracked my chest, then quieted when I reached out a shaking hand to catch her swaying body.

"Let us not talk of templar training today," I murmured to her. The emotions strung raw in my throat and words fell short with another gasp for breath. A shaking choke followed, and my eyes blurred with the start of tears. I did not stop them this time, and watched as they fell upon her face. Through her blood-matted hair and stained face, she looked up at me - cradled in my arms like a child - and offered a grin.

"Shall I read you another verse?" she asked me, barely able to muster the words from her torn throat. Blood poured from her lips, and her smile faded into a pained cough as she shuddered and curled up against me. "I feel cold…" she said. I heard the fear in her voice, and began to struggle to keep myself from weeping.

"I will keep you warm," I told her, then wrapped my arms around her body and kissed her forehead. She smiled, though weak, and looked up at me with blue eyes as stormy as the sea.

"In her Mercy," Kaidasa recited, "ask and they shall receive everlasting peace…" She wheezed and shook terribly as she fought to make out the words in her throat. Tears ran down her face as steadily as her blood. I struggled to keep my face, and pulled her closer. "E-Everlasting p-p…"

"In my sanctuary," I finished before pressing my forehead to her own and breaking into a sob. She looked at me through the glassy blue of her eyes, full of guilt and sorrow, then faded from me forever.

A great, shuddering wail erupted from my throat as I grabbed Kaidasa and hugged her limp body. A cold, horrible hate descended upon my heart then as I clutched her broken body in my arms, and for the first and last time I pressed my lips to her own and told Kaidasa that I loved her. A crackle of thunder erupted overhead and announced the start of a heavy rain, and underneath the blanket of the storm I held her close.

"Forgive me, Kaidasa," I trembled into her hair before cradling her limp body over my lap as I had the first night I met her, and wept for her passing.

_Please, forgive me._


	45. Child's Play

The men at my back had been reduced to squabbling, frightened children. Only two remained - Ser Martin and the apprentice boy from the chantry. Martin himself seemed more frightened than the boy. Wrought with steely conviction, I could see the courage and life shining in the boy's eyes. A shame he might not live to see the next winter, though I would not stop him. He must learn the dangers of their kind if he would survive the duties of a templar.

"Cullen, is it?" I asked the boy once we left the shrieking crowds at the gate. As I stepped over the bridge a disturbing quiet settled in around us. Early-morning fog leveled with our eyes and obscured the road ahead. The boy, now absent of the crowd's protection and confidence of his captain, regarded the foggy abyss with uncertainty.

"Yes, ser…" he murmured while shrugging his weapon belt closer. The helmet was too large for his head, and tilted to nearly obscure the his eyes almost as much as the mop of unruly red hair peeking from beneath.

"How old are you, boy?" I ordered of him. I wanted to keep the lad talking, and to prevent him from scaring as the others had. Martin shot a wary, sidelong glance at me that told of the sensation creeping up his skin as well. Evil lurked in this decrepit maze of shacks and alleyways. Cullen glanced about him in a fit of nervousness when a far-off cry echoed from a indistinct direction. "_Boy_," I repeated, louder.

He jumped and turned his attention back to me. "N-Nineteen, ser," he stumbled over his words. My eyes jumped to the fog as a louder cry sounded, then rapid footsteps. My sword was drawn then lowered as a terrified elf streaked past then disappeared over the foggy bridge to the gate. Martin looked uneasy.

As we stepped down onto the dirt street of the Alienage, a familiar, old-sick feeling settled in my stomach. Only six months had passed since her death, yet I still felt the sting of it as if it were days before. The wound was entirely too fresh to so soon be treading upon these blood-stained grounds. And stained they were.

I stopped in my path to observe the bloody mark splattered in the dirt. The air hung thick with death and evil. Pressure sunk in around us and suddenly my legs felt like iron. I could sense her.

She was still here.

_Greagoir…._

Instantly I bristled and drew my sword, though both the boy and Martin looked surprised. I turned around in a circle while awaiting my ghost to spring into action. When no creature emerged from the fog to attack us, I hesitantly released my grip on the weapon and placed it back in the sheath.

"Commander?" Martin asked after a nervous pause.

"Be on your guard," I muttered to them both. The boy straightened up and tried to steady his sword, which nearly reached the length of his body.

My skin prickled in that old aggravation as we drew closer to the source of the shadows. Cold whispers strung at my back, too quiet to make out from an unsettling, new sound filling the air. A dull thrum had replaced the silence. As we walked further down the street, it grew to a loud hiss until I could feel the ground beneath me shaking under its call. I stopped at the door of the orphanage.

A sudden sickness filled my belly, that of a knowing fear that had slowly crept up my bones since Denerim had sent word to the Circle. Though my mind had screamed against me to choose otherwise, I had heeded a dying mother's words and left the child, alone and unsupervised, in the pit of a wolves' den. Standing before the ominous door of the orphanage, I knew then the horrible mistake I had made in letting a mage-child live.

"It's here…." I murmured, though as the words left my mouth the door burst open and was torn off the hinges. Martin was knocked over by the force of the blast, though the boy Cullen jumped out of the way before it could sweep him up too. Bracing my body, I raised a weapon-clad hand to the heated darkness and shouted for the demon to show itself.

All too quickly did the wind die and howling stop. Though the thrumming remained, I no longer felt anchored to the ground. After helping Martin to his feet, I turned back to the shadowed doorway and prepared myself.

"Now is your chance to leave, boy," I turned to Cullen. "If you wish to keep your life, then go back now to your chantry where it is safe." I would not have the blood of another innocent child on my hands, and Maker help me I wanted to save him from this gruesome fate if I could. Martin seemed to understand the precipice of this horror, and swallowed a hard lump in his throat before drawing his sword.

At first, I thought the lad would heed my words and run back to the gate where he could retreat to his captain. After a brief expression of hesitation, he clenched his jaw and readied his weapon as best he could.

"I want to _help_," he confided once more, the vindication clear in his voice. Nodding, I turned back to the doorway and stepped over the threshold that breathed fire and whispers.

Though the door had been broken from its hinges, the moment we left the street way of the Alienage blackness filled in behind us and shut out the light. Martin turned to try and open it up again, but was met by a shapeless, solid form. I pulled him away and stepped forward into the shambled building.

Screams of children echoed in the distance of this demonic house, and for a moment I felt the unsettling fear creep into my heart. Memories of the tower massacre flashed briefly, then subsided when I forced myself to step forward.

"Do not be afraid," I told the boy, who had stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of wailing children. "It is a trick meant to dissuade and terrorize. Do not let your eyes be deceived." Though I spoke the words clearly, I could not help but doubt them when another scream wracked the distant shadows of the orphanage.

"There is a great evil here…" Martin muttered.

We continued in silence for some time, though the further we crept into the poisoned labyrinth the harder it was to look away from the carnage. The walls were lined in pulsing flesh and blood, and on the floor scattered the remains of mangled children and nurse-maids alike. Eyes were plucked from the skull, and faces torn from the bone.

Martin began to cough and heave from the overwhelming stink, though the boy remained silent. I looked back to them both from time to time, and found that the lad Cullen, rather than my templar, was the only one remaining calm. Though the boy's eyes were glassy with fear, he did not sway from the path I followed. Martin, however, grew steadily fearful of some unseen shadow stalking his footsteps.

As we rounded a corner I fell upon a brutal sight - a boy, not older than five, was strung up from the ceiling by chains. Fresh blood still dripped from his carcass, and it was in that moment that Martin stumbled against the open doorway and vomited on the floor.

Though it was a terrible sight, my fear was not for the horror that had taken these poor children, but for the new darkness that presented itself just past the hanging body in the other doorway.

_Greagoir…._

I strode towards the door with fervent purpose, unwary of the fact Martin no longer followed us. Cullen clung to my back out of fear and determination, leaving our third behind.

The air was thicker in this room, and the thrum quickly built to a loud pulse that shook my body. Ice swept through my veins and limbs once more submerged into an invisible muck that turned my body to stone.

"Commander, look!" his voice spoke of fear and incredulity at some offensive sight, though I could not focus. The ground beneath me shook and trembled by some unknown source. I could not keep myself steady. My body grew cold.

Half-dazed and staring through a blackening tunnel-vision, I turned to one of the worn iron cots that lined the room. In the very middle of a bloody mattress sat a child, her back to us. I could make out the dark of her hair and white of her skin, though nothing more. Without seeing her face I recognized the child.

_Kaidasa…_

The little girl was bent over something, and quietly wept. Cullen moved to help the girl, though I forcefully grabbed his arm and yanked him back.

"_No_," I ground out through a snarl, my eyes set upon her like a wolf. I knew this ruse well. I knew what she conjured - a fallacy of an innocent child, meant to beguile me once more into complacency. I would not fall for her trick twice.

"Show yourself, demon," I shouted at her. The child fell quiet, and for a moment I wondered if it was a mistake. A whispering breeze swept under our feet, then grew until a blast of wind nearly toppled us both. A bright, blinding light filled the room and rooted under the child's feet. She was lifted from the ground then, and a horrible shriek erupted from her small mouth.

_Dear Greagoir… _

_You were a fool._

I opened my eyes to an impenetrable darkness. In the distance I heard the vague shout from the boy, though I could not see him. I staggered forward. A bloom of light appeared, and beneath I could see again the blood-stained floor. As I stepped closer I saw the outline of the child sitting again with her back to me and crying. My fear was abandoned - my sense of restraint and paranoia absent. All I could focus on was my concern over the child; a sudden swell of sympathy and affection for innocence.

As I knelt closer towards her, she turned to me with sightless white eyes and blood splatters over her mouth. In her small, feeble hands she held the remnants of what looked like a boy's head. The eyes had been removed, and the jaw dislocated. I stumbled back and fell over with a cry, my hand shielding my eyes as the light blinded me once more and I saw, again, the ghost of my nightmares appear.

She broke so abruptly from the darkness I was temporarily blinded, and turned away from the source to cover my eyes. When I looked back again, the child was turned to the ghostly white form of my Kaidasa. No longer was she plagued by the illness of a demon's possession or decay, but rather a perfect memory of the woman I had remembered. She glowed with the light of the moon and shone as brightly as the sun. I had to shield my eyes to look upon her, but once adjusted I felt no fear towards this woman - this creature.

She beckoned the child with open arms, and without a second thought the girl leapt to her feet and ran towards her. I reached out a hand to stop her, but was met by unnatural silence. My throat was shut. My body was frozen. The phantom woman looked at me, penetrating me with her hateful and accusing eyes. I had abandoned her daughter.

"N-No, how-" I whispered once she had relinquished her hold on my body. She embraced her daughter, and it was then the terrible theory came to me - her soul could not part to the Maker, and nor could it disappear into the Fade, for she was an abomination to both the clean and unnatural, and thus only one option remained. She was bound by a fading spirit to what life and memory still clung to the earth - her daughter. She was a phantom.

"Kaidasa, how-" I stopped, shaking my head in disbelief. It was a trick of a demon, knowing of my pain. It was using it against me, parading this child before me to inspire guilt and sympathy. I tensed and stood to my feet, but found I could not lift my sword. My heart was too heavy.

"_Would you strike down a child, Greagoir?_"

Though I knew to whose voice it belonged, it did not come from the ghostly body that echoed of Kaidasa. Instead, I looked down to the little girl with sightless eyes and hands glowing. They came from her mouth - spoken through her body as a medium for conversation. Her hair moved about her with the wind still drawn under my feet. I looked behind me - still pitch blackness. I could no longer hear the boy Cullen.

"_Would you take all that is left of me?_" she continued. I turned back to her with startled, blurry eyes. "_Can you kill those that are innocent of your own crimes?_" Though the words did not come from her mouth, my eyes never left the ghostly figure of my beloved - a woman I had struck down only six months earlier. A body I had held bleeding in my arms until she grew stiff and cold.

"N-No, I cannot…" I finally cried, falling to my knees. My heart tore back open as fresh as that night six years ago, and under the scrutiny of her gaze I wept. "I cannot do it, not now…"

I felt a cold hand under my chin, and raised up to look into the glowing eyes of my beloved Kaidasa, smiling at me as I always remembered. She placed a kiss on my head then, and turned back to the little girl standing in the middle of the room. Kneeling down, I witnessed her touch the forehead of the child. Every vein in the girl's body bloomed with light and lit up her flesh like the webbing of a spider. The sight unsettled me, though I did not move to stop her. As the light faded, so did the form of Kaidasa, and after a final whisper she disappeared completely and the child fell to the floor - limp.

The thrum left, as did the wind, and too suddenly did the boy's shouting come back into focus behind me. No longer was I surrounded by shadows, but instead the sobering remnants of a corpse-strewn room. The little girl lay at my feet, motionless. Innocent. I could hear Cullen's footsteps approaching.

Reaching down, I picked up the child in my arms and turned back just as Cullen reached me. He looked fearful, though unhurt. He hurriedly babbled on that Martin couldn't speak or stand up, and asked what had happened. I said nothing to the boy and turned to leave. His eyes followed the cradled bundle in my arms.

As we stepped through the open archway I swore I heard a whisper pass my ear. Heart thrashing and mind swimming, I followed both Cullen and Martin outside and back into the foggy morning light. It was only then I looked down to see the same scars embedded into the child's face that had tarnished the flesh of her mother. The wounds of blood magic.

"Who is she?" Cullen asked from my left, arm slung under Martin's body to hold up his weight. I glanced at him, stony and faceless, then turned back to the front as we came over the bridge.

"Isthalla," I told him. The name was a vile in my throat.

_Daughter of Mahiel._

_Blood of Kaidasa._

_An abomination I cannot kill._


	46. Empty

I met Greagoir at the gates. A courier had rode out ahead of the group to alert me at the tower of his coming. We had already had our own squall to deal with - a mage uprising from the tower apprentices. The death of their fellows was still too raw a wound to quickly forget, and it didn't help that the templars had taken a distinctly heavy prejudice against them since.

Striding hard and fast, I ordered the men to open the doors before I reached them. He stood on the threshold looking entirely disheveled, his hand clutching that of a small child's. My eyes drew to her, and almost instantly I could feel the presence of darkness inhabiting the child's body. I screwed up my face and turned to Greagoir.

"This way," I muttered, and ordered the guards to shut the gate behind us. The child had trouble keeping up, forcing Greagoir to gather her into his arms and follow my gait up to the third level of my office. She was otherwise silent as he set her down in a chair and moved around the desk to speak to me.

"She was the only one left inside," he murmured to me, casting wary eyes back to her. She was still in shock it seemed. Her empty, wide eyes traveled across the room as if not entirely sure she was physically present in it. "She won't say a word," he added in a worried mutter. I looked back at her.

She was frightened, that much I could see. The situation had yet to settle in her mind, and Maker forbid should it ever. By the letter alone I felt sick with dismay over the horror she had been exposed to. No child should live to see such nightmares.

"What do you propose we do?" Greagoir interrupted my observations, needy and pressing. I regarded him with concern, wondering if truly he was more worried about the child or the safety of the Circle. Since the incident, I had not seen him come back from himself - if that could truly be a definition of a man lost to his own humanity. He had grown as cold and unfeeling as his commander before, and I feared it would be the undoing of the tower should he be left to progress.

"Greagoir, I will handle this as best I know how," I assured him, then turned my attention to the child. She had steadily grown more aware of her surroundings, and began to bristle in fear of the unfamiliarity of it. I stepped forward and knelt beside her chair, flashing a wide and warm smile.

"A little frightened, are we?" I asked. She looked at me then, eyes widened when she realized she was not alone. "That's all right, there's no need to worry," I touched her forehead with a glowing index and felt her relax. "There, there…" I soothed the child, and slowly watched her features soften. "This will not hurt, I promise," I assured her.

Pressing three fingers to her temple, I closed my eyes and sifted my way through her present memories. Flashes of screams, darkness, and blood jolted my mind. I felt her fear, the raw terror and hysteria of entrapment. Though I did not want to disturb the frail girl, I attempted to travel back further to find the source of the evil. Greagoir had failed to describe what had started the attack in the first place, though I suspected he held back something.

Memories of children from the orphanage flashed in my mind. A young boy; her friend, likely. Then, I saw the nightmares rooted deep in her subconscious. A woman plagued them as a constant, both motherly and dangerous. She shifted between two figures, one of which I recognized quite easily, and the other an echo of a much more sinister creature. I moved further back, and found the girl in a shack with the woman, embraced around her with cupped hands as red lights danced under their fingertips. A cloaked figure entered the doorway, and she pushed the child behind her so the stranger could not reach her. Uneasy, I drew back and released my hold on the girl. The memories faded.

Muttering concerns to myself, I stood to my feet and paced over to Greagoir, who had taken to observing one of the bookcases beside my desk. Eyes still on her, I leaned in to whisper to him.

"So this is her daughter, then?" I tested, waiting for him to reveal his knowledge. Greagoir froze, struck by his guilt, then looked away with a troubled frown on his face.

"Yes," he muttered.

"Her only child, I presume…"

"Yes."

"Greagoir…" I started, my voice heavy with uncertainty. "I need to understand why you felt it necessary to keep this from me."

"I saw no need to tell you," he retaliated too quickly. "She wasn't a threat."

"Yes, a past tense now rendered useless. _Was_ now _is_," I contemplated. "I greatly suspect you also knew she was the cause of the accident, also?"

He said nothing.

"Well if there's no other news I should know about, I think we should come up with a solution - don't you?" I said importantly. Greagoir was unsettled by this, and creased his forehead before speaking to me.

"What do you think we should do with her?" he asked, unsure. I raised my brow in surprise, turning back to him.

"_Do with her _- Maker, Greagoir, you speak as if we are dealing with a body already," I chided lightly. Then, turning to her, I smiled and spoke over my shoulder. "If you had planned to _do _anything so sinister, I imagine you would have done so at the Alienage."

"Saved yourself the trouble of your journey back, at least," I said while crouching down in front of the silent girl. I grinned wide at her, my face crinkled with sympathy and kindness. "So I assume you leave the decision up to me. You wouldn't mind that, would you dear girl?" I spoke to her.

She slowly shook her head in response.

"Well then, I think it would be best to take those terrible nightmares away," I whispered to her, "I think you will feel a lot better after that." Taking her small hand in mine, I stood and walked with the child towards the infirmary.

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

"You're going to _erase _her memories?" Greagoir hissed in my ear, shocked. Only a few times before had the Circle found the need to perform such drastic measures to preserve a mind, and only as a last resort. It seemed only right to place the girl in that category, if only for her own safety.

"Would you rather her live with them?" I smiled and asked. He released my shoulder then, startled, and stepped away. Though I knew something haunted his subconscious, I was not one to pry - not unless explicitly necessary. Offering the child my hand once more, I walked her downstairs to the infirmary wing to set up a cot and call for Enchanter Wynne.

"It seems we have a need again to use your special skills, Enchanter Wynne," I nodded to her once she had entered. For a moment she hesitated, then drew her eyes to the source of my request. Quieting, Wynne drew alongside me and helped the girl onto the bed.

"I see."


	47. Path of the Follower

**Author's Note: **This marks the beginning of Part III to this extended fanfiction, where we finally rejoin Isthalla the Grumpy Warden with her party, in which we find out they are apparently somewhere in the Brecilian Forest. Enjoy, you guys!**_  
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* * *

_Screams._

_Children._

_Mangled. Dead. Bleeding._

_Maker help me._

I woke on the fringe of a weak sob, my heart pounding and body covered in sweat. I thought I was rid of these dreams. It seemed the tower was bound to follow me wherever I went.

_That wasn't the tower, though, was it?_

Her voice was malicious and delighted, and I hated to realize she was right. The dream was always the same, and always so frustratingly fragmented. I could never make out a clear timeline, but the emotions were more than enough. The flashes that were remembered were things I never dared repeat - not even to Irving. It was too gruesome and twisted of a place to ever consider describing to another.

Despite this, a fear still twisted in my gut that I repeatedly had this dream for a reason. The concept itself made me want to vomit - I could not imagine it being true. I didn't want it to be. And more so, why did I dream about it? I had never bothered to ask Jowan or any other mage in the tower what they dreamed about, but something told me it wasn't normal. _She_ certainly agreed.

_Yes, my foolish little elf._

_Pry if you can._

I attempted to ignore her obnoxious cackling long enough to reacquaint myself to the waking world. At first my tent was nothing more than a shapeless black abyss, but as I blinked and squinted the world around me became less foggy. My parchment still lay scattered in one corner with inane scribblings marking their surface. My inkwell had tipped over and stained the grass, though not my robes thankfully. I glanced to the corner where my trunk sat open and clothing lay scattered about, and silently noted I should clean up tomorrow morning.

Too unsettled by my dreams, I decided sleep would not return for some time and rose to dress and exit my tent. I did my best to push her hissing voice to the back of my mind and focus on the distinct sound of a freshly stoked fire. Hopefully it wasn't Alistair or some other unwanted company at this dreadful hour.

As I rounded one of the other tents I was pleased to find Sten hunkered over a log in front of the blaze. Everyone else was asleep from the looks of it. He did not acknowledge me when I approached, which I didn't mind. I would rather have mild indifference than the aggravating over-concern of some _others_ I knew in our little party.

I took a seat beside the tall Qunari creature and slumped over my knees. Sten was far past expecting my best posture and behavior after so much time in my company, though he always found it his duty to relay his disapproval whenever I chose or said something foolish. I was always relieved, however, that it was done for his own interest and not my own. Petty concern always annoyed me.

"You haven't been sleeping," he said after a few pausing seconds dragged by since my interruption. I sat up and sighed while trying to focus on the dancing flames of the fire.

"I am more than aware," I muttered, then corrected myself when I heard the venom in my tone. "Forgive me," I sighed, "Insomnia never sits well with my manners."

"Understandable," he nodded.

Sten did not press the issue, thankfully, though I felt suddenly compelled to share my concerns the longer I stared at the fire and noticed how misshapen it had become. Was the ground moving?

"Alistair told me becoming a Warden also meant taking on the responsibilities that came with it," I frowned.

"And what duties are those?" Sten inquired, knowing I would say them whether or not he asked. It was an unspoken courtesy.

"The more obvious being our ability to sense the darkspawn," I sighed, "he also mentioned nightmares - about the Archdemon, I believe."

"And are these the nightmares that are keeping you awake at night?"

"I don't believe so," I confessed. I slumped into my arms as my own words sunk into my mind and I realized, truly, that they had nothing to do with my Wardening.

"Then I believe you have answered your own question," Sten concluded, then resumed tending to the fresh fire. "Was that not what you intended by asking about the darkspawn dreams?" he added. I reluctantly nodded to assure him, and he accepted my silent answer.

Frustration began to build in my mind the longer I thought about it, bringing on another horrible headache I had no interest in having. I groaned and slumped back over my knees.

"What am I doing here, Sten?" I sighed. He turned to me, then looked out into the dark trees of the Brecilian Forest.

"We are employing the help of the Dalish for your treaties - to honor the pact of the Grey Wardens," he spoke quite clearly. It only frustrated me more.

"No, what am I _doing_?" I frowned then put my face into my hands.

"I do not understand the question, kadan," Sten said. I breathed in heavily through my nose and observed him from between my fingertips. An expanse of wild forestry and impossible mountains snaked into the midnight horizon and extended far past my reaching eyes. The world was so dark and open out here. At times it still frightened me.

"I don't know why Duncan picked me," I confessed while burrowing back into the safety of my arms. "I am the last creature in Thedas these people want defending them.

"The only reason I agreed to go was to save my life - I would have been killed were it not for Duncan's intervention," I recalled. My throat suddenly became dry as I remembered the event, and reminded myself that Duncan was dead.

_It was your fault._

"That's over now though and I don't know what I'm doing anymore," I receded into my arms, suddenly guilty of my own thoughts. "Self-preservation came to mind, initially. Now…" I fell quiet and shook my head, overwhelmed. I crumpled my brow and frowned, forcibly aware of just how cowardly I sounded.

"Fear is a useless emotion," Sten rumbled from beside me. "If you have uncertainty about your task, then you should face it and not complain about it," he spoke quite simply. There was no disappointment to his tone - no righteous anger or bitter spite as would have colored any other of our companions' voices. What was relayed to me by the gray creature sitting alongside was simple and unadulterated truth.

Much of what he said made sense, and spoke a level of wisdom I wasn't sure if he intended or not. Though Sten never offered elaborate pep talks and excruciating heart-to-heart discussions as Wynne and Leliana often liked, he managed to communicate an entire debate's worth of honesty in a single statement. Despite this, I still felt that cold sickness in my stomach over the impossible thing in front of me - a thing I had never wanted.

"Can I ask you something, Sten?" I spoke up after a reasonable pause settled between his last words and my own. He nodded, wordlessly, and glanced my way out of respect to acknowledge our conversation. I breathed in.

"Am I a good leader?"

The question hung thick in the air after I had spoken it, and a part of me wished I hadn't asked. I knew I wasn't a leader, if only because I didn't want it in the first place. Every day I resented having to wake up and continue a journey forced on to my lap, and every day I cursed Duncan for leaving me and ensuring my continuation through guilt alone. Every night I fell apart wishing someone else had been given the banner long ago, because I knew in the end the entirety of Thedas would burn because of me.

Though it took Sten a moment to decide on his answer, I could see the word forming on his mouth before he even considered it.

"No," he began, then once connected his gaze to mine with stern reaffirmation. "However, I believed the same after the first day you released me in Lothering. I did not believe we would survive Redcliffe or manage to save Eamon's son. I also did not think you were capable of surviving your tower with your mind in-tact, yet you have proven yourself competent many times despite your disadvantage."

I perked and raised my head, a slight grin betraying my mouth.

"Is this because I'm an elf?" I asked, curious over Sten's disposition towards my kind. He had never shown interest, though I sensed a slight disdain towards others who did not follow the Qun as faithfully as his own. Perhaps _despise_ was too strong of a word to describe, or that I was simply reading him wrong.

He looked mildly confused for a moment before responding, as if it should have been obvious. Frowning, he looked at me and spoke quite sincerely.

"It is because you are a woman," he corrected. Strangely, I did not take the statement conceitedly. Rather than annoyance, I surged with curiosity. I tilted my head and rested my chin on my hand.

"Why do you believe that?"

"Women are priests, artisans, shopkeepers, or farmers - they don't fight," he retorted.

"Is that what you were taught to believe by the Qunari?" I asked, curious. He looked perplexed for a moment before drawing his eyes away, as if confronted by a conflicting truth.

"No-" he paused, then huffed in frustration. "A person is born, kossith or elven or human or dwarf. They do not choose this. The size of your hands, whether we are clever or foolish, the land we come from, the color of our hair - these are beyond our control." He paused, then looked at me again. "We do not choose, we simply _are_."

"That may be true," I agreed with a curt nod of my head. I turned my hand over and surveyed it under the firelight - calloused fingertips from unaccustomed labor, dirt smudges from the ground, and a few new cuts from some minor issues with Morrigan's pet wolf, Luther. My skin was pale white under the glow. I glanced at the thin, tell-tale cuts across my left palm and quickly clenched my hands shut.

"I did not choose to be a mage, I was born this way," I quieted while running my fingertips over the length of my forearm. "Just as I never asked to be an elf - two things that are often looked down upon in this world." The words felt bitter and sharp on my tongue, and quickly swallowed up in my tensing throat. I felt embarrassed to hear myself say such things, though Sten would not understand the shame.

"I have no control over what made me," I continued, "but I can change how I am perceived through my actions." I turned away and looked back at my hands, now admiring my fingertips. "Not that I've ever really sought approval from my company," I smiled, slow and weakened, "save for a certain few."

"You speak of your guardian from the tower," Sten said.

"Yes," I nodded. "He is a very admirable man," I decided with a slight frown. "He is what every man or woman should be that wears such armor."

"Do you admire him only for his resistance to the Fade?" he asked me.

I tilted my head and imaged Cullen's face in the fire, and wondered briefly if he ever thought about me. The idea that he had forgotten me burrowed in my heart like a thorn.

"No, he is also very kind. He was always very patient with me…" I frowned deeply and creased my brow. "I believe if even a few of the other templars had exercised his level of judgment, then the tower might have been saved.

"If they weren't all such cowards..." I muttered under my breath, my mind drifting back to Greagoir hiding out in the foyer like a frightened child. I breathed out and shut my eyes, letting the anger leave me. "If I had only gotten there sooner," I finished.

A dark cloud drifted through my mind, then dissipated as I watched the world around me come back into focus. I sucked in a sharp breath and sat up straight, running a quick hand through my hair.

"Well, I didn't mean to run away with that conversation," I lightened up. "But anyway-" I pulled my hair back, then let it down when I decided it was too short to tie back. "I suppose my point is not everyone follows the same customs as your people," I shrugged.

"If that were the case," I continued, "then I should believe every hard-assed male in Thedas is a templar and any man or woman with half a brain and sense of humor should be a mage," I smiled. Sten did not easily get the joke, though I supposed he grasped it nonetheless.

"You are a very strange creature, Isthalla," he finally decided with a shake of his head. "I do not know what to make of you. Perhaps this is a quality of Grey Warden I had not heard about," he finished with a faint smile.

"Or that I simply chose to be this way," I corrected with a tilt of my head while standing to my feet. I brushed off the seat of my robes and breathed in the crisp night air. A slight puff of white exited my lips, noting the approach of mountain frost. I bared my Qunari companion a wide grin.

"Perhaps," Sten elected. "We will see."


	48. Killer's Comfort

On my way back to my tent I heard a slight shift of footing just inside and knew then that I was not alone anymore. Whether it be one of my foolish camp mates come to sneak into my tent while I was away or some stray creature, I decided I would have a bit of fun with them before bed.

Playing the fool, I boldly entered the tent and glanced only once to assure myself it was not some filthy creature crawling inside, but rather the slight outline of a figure hunched beside my trunk. Now who could possibly gain to sneak into my bed at this hour? I immediately ruled three of my party members out - Sten, Alistair, and Wynne. Leliana's precious and flowery Maker-driven ethics should exclude her also, though I wouldn't put it past her thieving little fingers to filch my jewelry. Morrigan had no sense in sneaking about when she knew I would wake at any hour to chat with her. That only left one possible answer of someone willing to sneak about my tent in the middle of the night - my would-be loyal assassin, newly aligned in my service by the weight of my coin and threatening party. A company fast asleep and unwary of the danger now perched alongside my messy trunk still strewn with smallclothes. Oh what a clever and stupid little elf he was.

I was busy fumbling to pull my nightgown over my head when I felt the cold steel of a knife to my back. I slowed then, and gently let the rest of the fabric slip over my head and fall in a heap in front of me. Certainly, he didn't feel like wasting time. The cold prick against my bare skin chilled my naked torso, and caused me to breath in sharp and quick through my nose. I tilted my head ever-so-slightly to catch a glimpse of his predatory gaze over my shoulder, and smiled.

"Much in a hurry, are we?" I purred. I should have expected him to wait until I was at least pretending to sleep before he tempted his prize. I felt his iron grip on both of my arms loosen in the slightest, then twist anew. His weapon sharpened against my spine.

"I say rest when I am dead," he chuckled, low and throaty. Oh, he certainly was enjoying himself, wasn't he? I had picked up on that sadistic charm over the past few weeks as his leg steadily mended and he found himself once again able to cloak himself in the dark and move behind the trees. I could sense his blood no matter how far he hid.

_The sneaky little brat thinks he's clever, darling. That's cute._

For once I agreed with my cynical spirit companion. By playing the dull and uninterested he had taken both myself and my company as fools. How wrong I wanted to prove him, though that would have to wait for the moment until I could twist his filthy arrogance right back around in his face. I tried to hide the begging snarl under a smile, though it was failing terribly.

I breathed in deep and slow through my nose to calm my throbbing pulse, then shut my eyes to focus. If I lost control, then I would surely spoil my prize. The steady hum that had built around my nerves to tear open the Fade fell quiet, then released the tension in the air as I loosened my shoulders. I shifted back to straighten myself (despite the sharper prick of his knife - he hesitantly pulled it away so I would not pierce myself, the courteous and foolish man) and noticed his arms were bare.

I leaned further back until my head pressed against his shoulder, and breathed beside him. Warm, firewood scented skin. He wore no tunic, or perhaps like myself he wore nothing but smallclothes. I myself began to notice the chilly night air prickling my bare breasts. By his slightly wandering eyes, I assumed he noticed as well. I grinned again.

"Enjoying the view?" I tested in a throaty, daring growl. He must have taken my tension for interest, for I felt quite suddenly a tell-tale bulge brush me from behind as he spread his knees outward and pushed himself closer, resting his mouth against my neckline.

"To say the least," he breathed. His voice was husky and full of primal lust, though I wondered if he were the kind to act solely on that desire or perhaps lull it from his victims through so-called charm. He struck me as the latter, though the former would never surprise me. Nonetheless, I kept my right hand prepared and legs tensed the closer he drew.

_Draw closer, assassin. I'll show you what you want._

Despite my senses warning me of danger and muscles tensed for attack, I couldn't help but ease into a heated brush against my shoulder. It felt warm and inviting - something I had long expected of my foolish elven assassin. I did not hide myself from the idea of bedding the man; he was, after all, deceptively handsome in a sultry sort of manner that begged from half-lidded bedroom eyes.

Morrigan and I had indulged on several occasions the method in which he would approach the situation, sometimes jokingly as being the sort of bed with all smoke and no power. From the solid form and texture of his body pressing steadily into mine, however, I was quickly conforming to the idea of a hard and passionate lover. A blush spread up my neck the further down his tempting mouth drifted, and suddenly I felt like forgetting my revenge for a little while - maybe.

"So tell me, assassin," I started in before I lost my footing in the conversation completely. He leisurely tilted his head with a smile, then removed his weapon from my back to place it under my chin. My throat tilted back; exposed, white, and open. "Have you achieved what you came here for?" I dared. "Or will you ever stick your blade where it belongs?"

It took only a flashing moment - a grip on his arm, and a quick twist of my body to clip him under my thigh. By the time my disorienting spell wore off, I had mounted the foolish man and held him by both wrists high above his head. His stomach felt warm against my legs, though I ignored it for the moment in favor of enjoying the change of pace. Leaning over him, I twisted my body and bared a vicious smile.

"Perhaps in your own heart," I hissed while conjuring the abandoned weapon by magic and tilting it to aim at his chest. It floated there, taunting, as I waited for his response. He surveyed me from leisurely half-lidded brown eyes, and spread a slow and appreciative grin over his lips.

"You know, I am certainly one for kinky foreplay - but perhaps this is a bit much, no?" he tried in a light and chuckling tone. My smile disappeared.

"Cute, but you should have tried that five minutes ago," I warned while forcing the blade more until it cut a thin slice into his chest. He winced, though only slight, then smiled again.

"My apologies," he rasped. "I-I should have known better. Perhaps you could punish me in a less… mutilating way? Bindings and whips are greatly encouraged!" Though his attempts at steering the conversation away from who-leaves-the-tent-alive were amusing, I would not quickly forget my irritation over disturbing my evening. I narrowed my gaze and removed the floating weapon before letting my bare chest rest against his. He breathed in sharp and quick, unsure of what to think of this new position I'd placed him in.

"Can I assume all is forgiven, or shall I fetch Wynne for another broken leg?" he jested. Now his jokes were irritating. I wanted to shut him up.

I gestured with my hand and forced his body to sit up, still under my control. I re-adjusted to sit comfortably on his lap - ignoring the indecisive erection still pressing against my thigh - and bound his wrists behind his back by the same magic so I could freely move my arms.

"Now," I cleared my throat, wrapping my legs around his waist and leaning into him. He swallowed the lump in his throat and waited, unsure. "Assuming that you meant to kill me with that pathetic attempt on my life, I won't return the favor so quickly as you failed to do," I frowned at him, silently scolding him over his lack of professionalism, then continued.

"Perhaps I was not clear enough," I twirled my finger and used a spare bit of nearby rope to weightlessly circle around his neck and jerk tight, "when I said were you to step a single foot out of line, I shall tear your limbs off." I twirled my finger again, tightening the rope until he began to cough. Veins emerged from his neck, and as I breathed in I could sense the beat of his own quickening pulse. She invited me tauntingly, though I knew he didn't deserve that measure of theatrics.

_Oh please, my pretty pet. He would bleed so beautifully._

"Just so I can be perfectly clear," I sneered, still tightening the rope, "if I should ever catch you sneaking into my tent again, I will _rip off _what you value most." My free hand gripped harshly to his groin, and with satisfaction I witnessed a sputtering whimper try to conform from his strangled throat. He looked far less attractive in that respect, so after a disgusted snort I released the rope and allowed him to breath. He gasped in ragged and throaty wheezes, then slowed after a few breaths until he could control himself again. His face was a little less red when he finally addressed me.

"As beautiful and ferocious as the day I met you, my Warden," he smiled while reaching up a newly-freed hand to rub his throat. A weak cough escaped again, then burrowed under a grimacing smirk in attempts to hide the pain. He was not one for asphyxiation, it seemed.

It was only after a few moments I realized I had yet to remove myself from his lap. Perhaps it was out of some unconscious desire to remain there, but my arms were wound about his neck as I straddled his waist. Despite everything, I noticed a re-emerging hardness still valiantly brushing my legs. I commended him on the effort.

I was still exhilarated by the feeling of using my magic, of the thrill to control another so easily and comfortably. My heart was pounding, my blood was pumping, and my spirit burst to life from the sudden connection to the Fade. Cool, refreshing water rushed through my chest and to the tips of my extremities. I breathed in and, releasing my final hold on him, shut my eyes and felt my entire body shiver with liberation.

Perhaps he took this as an invitation, or perhaps I didn't really care how he viewed it. Regardless, I found my thighs suddenly tight around his waist and a tongue exploring my mouth. He twisted me over in one fluid movement and placed me on my back before grinding up against me.

Oh _Maker_, it had been far too long since I'd felt a man's touch - strong hands on my back, warm stomach against my own, and a hot, inviting mouth melding with mine. Very few of the fumbling tower boys were competent enough to know how to handle a woman, much less please her. There had been a few, truly enjoyable little trysts I remembered, though most were a disappointment. The fact that Jowan had been amongst those few capable didn't say much, and even more so distressed me to the point I had even tried out a few of the templar boys, only to be disappointed more by their… _short _running time with any female in the tower.

Oh, but this elf knew what he was doing. The little clothing still on our bodies was removed expertly and effortlessly, and from there it was the natural warmth of flesh against flesh, bodies entwining around one another as serpents. He did not rush into it as I expected, but ran confident fingers over my figure until he discovered my most sensitive spots.

I was trembling from the electric chill of his fingertips by the time he finally found his prize. Placing two middle-most fingers into his smiling mouth, he rested beside me and slipped his fingertips between my thighs. I tensed up at first - even Jowan was never confident enough to perform the task - then relaxed with a throaty exhale and allowed him to part my lips. As if summoned, he met my hungry mouth, all the while wielding his fingertips as expertly as a painter, easing in with every stroke and making my body warm with liquid fire.

"My sweet, fiery minx," he breathed into my ear. "Are you enjoying yourself?" I paused amidst my squirming and arching torso and gripped his waist, turning my burning gaze on him with a half-parted mouth.

"Maker's _breath_, where did you learn that?" I hissed in a low and husky voice unaccustomed to myself. I shut my eyes and tilted my head back when he slipped further inside, then drew his fingers out, hot and wet. He chuckled at my pleasure.

"The boys from your so-called tower did not treat you very kindly, I see," he murmured into my neck, then removed his hand to adjust himself so that he could rest his body atop mine. I could feel he was fully-aroused now, though he still resisted in light of torturing me further. I hated to admit I loved it.

While grinding up against me, he breathed into my ear.

"Did they not _please_ you, my Warden?" he murmured. His voice was like silk against my throat, and prickled the hairs on my neck. I arched my back and dug into the flesh of his waist, trying to pull him in. He pressed hard against me, though he would not enter. I groaned in frustration. He laughed.

"Did they not excite every part of you?" he growled, then opened his mouth wide and bit my throat and sucked at it. I let out an unexpected yelp of thrilling pleasure, then wrapped my legs tighter around his waist. He threw himself against me, still taunting, though by chance barely slipped inside then pulled away again.

"Because you deserve to be pleasured, dear Isthalla," he said, then finally plunged deep inside between my legs and caused me to cry out in rapture. "I'd love to hear you scream for me, my fiery elven jewel," he finished with a throaty growl against my jaw, then grabbed my face and pushed my mouth open fervently with his own before drawing out and sliding effortlessly back inside with a single, firm thrust. His hand stroked the side of my face, then trailed down my throat as he leaned back and pulled out entirely again.

"Oh, please let me hear you scream, my little minx," he grinned, then gathered my body in to his arms and thrust hard into me, pulled out, and rhythmically repeated this process until friction gave way to slick, wet fluid between my legs. I arched my back and screamed for him, I screamed until my voice became hoarse.

No amount of child's play fumblings in the closet or secret meetings in the library at night in my youth could account for what that assassin did to me. I counted each release - once, twice, three times - then lost count as the evening went on and I moved between hazy, ecstasy-thrilled bursts and hot-heavy breathing between slick, moving bodies. It was during a short break to catch our breath that he was delighted to find out my Wardening also included infertility, and was free to continue without pause.

After he was assured I had been pleased to the point of exhaustion, I felt his own body began to throb and shiver with the desperate ache for release. He had lasted a commendably long time - much longer than any other man I had bedded. In fact he was quite possibly the best lover I'd had the pleasure of bedding in my 19 years.

Shortly before I thought he might burst from the build-up, he flipped me over on my stomach and sent me back into another round of hot, white pleasure that forced guttural moans from my mouth. He thrust relentlessly until I could hardly keep up with my shaking breath to accommodate the sensation wracking my body. Triggered by my orgasm, I felt his entire body tense and throb before spilling into me - further driving my own release into an unexpected shriek of blinding pleasure.

I swear to the Maker I saw spots when he finally pulled out and fell down beside me. I decidedly stayed where he'd left me face-down with a steadily-hot liquid staining my sheets between my legs. We both spent the better half of the first few minutes after catching our breath, then when I finally looked over to him - hair tangled and sweaty, face distorted, eyes nearly shut - I smiled.

"I should have done that much sooner," I breathed while closing my eyes and grinning. When I opened my eyes he was looking curiously at me, almost in a child-like manner. His brow raised.

"You mean to say we could have been enjoying one another's company like this weeks ago?" he smirked. Settling more on to his back, he crossed his arms behind his head and sighed. "Maybe I should have tried to kill you sooner," he joked.

I laughed for what felt like the first time in years.

"Don't test your luck, assassin," I shoved him in the arm and rolled over, pulling my knees under me. I frowned when I looked at the wet spots all over my bedroll. "Lest we need new sheets every time," I snorted, then grabbed a nearby tunic and did my best to clean up the mess.

"A clear sign of a good time, no?" he pleaded with a curt smile. I gave up on the stains and laid back down beside him, resting my head on his chest. He felt warm.

"Not for those that must clean the linens," I lightly scolded before sighing deep and wrapping an arm around his waist.

He breathed slow and steady until I was lulled into comfort by the sensation and soon fell asleep. Sometime in the night I felt him shift in the slightest to pull a blanket over us both and kiss my forehead. It had been a long time since I'd fallen asleep in someone's arms, but it was perhaps one of the best nights of sleep I'd gotten in what felt like ages. I only woke once when the stars were still out to find him wrapped protectively around me from behind and buried in my hair. I pulled his hands up to my face and held it to my chest, letting his fingertips brush my lips.

For the life of me, I never expected an assassin like him to be so comforting.


	49. The Dalish

"Isthalla, we're going in circles!" came his continuous, maddening whine from the back of the group… _again_. I tensed to hold back the threat tempting my lips and gritted my teeth instead. Morrigan's hand touched my shoulder.

"He is right," she confided. Then, glaring behind muttered, "No matter how annoying and repetitive the impart."

I breathed out hard from my nose and felt my ears twitch in aggravation. I knew we were going in circles. I had known this information for the past three _hours_, yet I was not fool enough to admit such to my jumpy companions. And more so I had felt the unpleasant presence of unwanted company lurking in the shadows.

"The trees are getting closer, I swear it," Alistair's voice complained from my left. He had materialized beside me and took on the duty of swatting at invisible tree branches grabbing at his face. I would have been pleased by the unhappy frown bequeathing his features were it not for my own immense displeasure.

The trees _were_ a bit unnerving. Since entering the heart of the forest, I had heard nothing but whispers and an unnatural hum surrounding the wood. All but Zevran claimed I was mad - perhaps it was too high a frequency for the rest to hear. I certainly knew the difference between the raving woman inhabiting my mind and the sounds around me. This was not an imagined fear.

I came to a stop where the trees seemed to open up a fair amount - at least enough to give our group a bit of breathing room and pause to gather themselves. Everyone seemed to understand the unspoken call for a break and plopped down in whatever open space they could find. Bodahn and Sandal led the cart to the far side of the open expanse and began pulling down everyone's travel packs for food and water. I myself decided I needed a moment alone.

After waiting for the others to preoccupy themselves - Sten cornered by another tale of Leliana's, Wynne and Morrigan both assisting Sandal to look at the cart donkey's sore foot, and the rest busy with ration handouts - I turned and slipped through the underbrush to another part of the forest where I might clear my head.

As I walked away from the group I realized just how dark it had become. Wynne had sought to light a few torches to help us see through the falling sunlight, rather than deplete our magic in the chance we might encounter unfriendly parties in the forest. Away from the chatter and glow of our traveling camp, the world again was a dark monster opening its teeth to devour all that dared explore it.

I continued on until I found myself at a decent pace from the others, though within shouting distance should I find the need. I pressed cold fingertips to my bare arms, shuddered, then attempted to adjust my eyes to the fading dark.

The woods were unnaturally still. For the first time I noticed the entire absence of life to the forest. Without the noise of my companions to drown out the warning, I could sense just how frightfully still the trees were. No small game, no birds, not even a chirp from the underbrush. A ghost wind rippled through the outlying trees and made the flesh of my body prickle in apprehension. That same feeling crawled up my spine - that we were not alone out here.

_Need some fresh air, my lost little elf?_

I perked and looked about. She sounded nearby. Narrowing my eyes, I concentrated until I could almost make out a figure's shape in the betraying darkness. She materialized effortlessly and drew forward in a weightless glide. Her dark hair fanned out behind her in a ripple of ink black. Her eyes were upon me, soft and smiling.

"I cannot find the way," I admitted, though my pride was not stung by this confession. She already knew. Smiling at me, she circled closer and ran a clawed index down the length of my jaw and circled around my collar until she stood adjacent. I turned to her.

_It seems that way, my darling._

"Is there another way out?" I asked, more pressing. She knew how to leave these woods. She had to. A frown flitted across her face when she regarded my hostile thoughts. I corrected myself.

"You know there is something different about these woods, don't you?" I tried, my eyes narrowed. Her smile returned as she circled around my front again and danced before me.

_Yes, of course._

_You hear it, don't you?_

_The singing, the whispers._

_The cries of the trees._

_You hear them whispering_

_Little Isthalla_

Her riddle-some speech ended with a cheerful cackle. She was toying with me, though there was a confirmation within her jest. The trees _had_ been whispering - this I could not deny. She came forward then and placed her long fingertips on either side of my face, gently coaxing me forward. I obeyed as always, like a weak-minded dog at the will of its master. My mind fogged for just a moment, then she released me and I stumbled back.

_Sweet Isthalla_

_Sweet, Foolish Isthalla_

_You will find what you seek_

_In the cries of your company_

_The darkness will find you_

I raised a brow at her and crossed my arms. "What a poetic statement," I remarked. She did not like my sarcasm. Her dark hair evaporated into flames and lit her black eyes with the same fire, burning into my own.

"_If you do not like my advice, then do not take it," _she hissed at me. Though her physical presence disappeared, I continued to hear her venomous tone ringing in my head.

_Go, foolish girl, if you think you are so smart_

_And stumble upon your own death_

I was compelled to apologize for my actions when I heard the distinct and loud shuffle of underbrush behind me. I looked over my shoulder to find Alistair stumbling brutishly through the trees, no doubt catching every thorn and snag along the way. After a few more curses he pulled his leg free from some nasty tangle of roots and casually strolled forward. I turned back and dropped my arms back at my sides, attempting indifference.

"Who were you talking to?" he asked me while shaking a boot to free himself from some stray leaves. Once he was done foolishly twisting about to check for any more, he looked up to find my invisible companion. His brow crumpled when he could not.

"I was contemplating aloud," I decided with a tensed expression, still keeping my eyes to the spot where she had disappeared. So help me - if she thought it would be funny to appear in front of him…

For the moment, she had absented herself from my company. My subconscious was gratefully silenced.

"Oh," Alistair mouthed before settling himself beside me. I looked over to find he had importantly crossed his arms and surveyed the darkness as if he expected to unravel its secrets any more than I had myself. Stupid oaf.

"It's getting dark soon," he noted. Did he really expect to form a conversation this way? I sighed to voice my aggravation, then answered.

"As I can clearly see," I retorted.

"Do you really suppose we can keep walking through this after dark?" he asked me. I bristled in anger.

"No, Alistair. Obviously that's why I stopped to make camp, isn't it?" I snapped back at him. I found myself surprised by the genuine confusion on his face. I was getting irritable. My fun-loving and haughty spirit companion was no more use than the rest of this whining group. We were lost and hungry and tired and probably miles from the nearest inkling of civilization.

I sighed and pressed two fingers to the bridge of my nose, trying to collect myself.

"I'm sorry," I forced the words from my lips, "These woods are driving me mad." Alistair, as quickly as he was to be wounded, I commended for his short emotional attention span. He perked up in an instant and moved on from the conversation, eager to continue.

"As much as the rest of us, I suppose," he shrugged. "There's something… _weird_ about this place, y'know?" he hunched into his shoulders and wrinkled his nose. "And after what you said about the trees whispering earlier-" he said in a half-laugh that I took as condescension, then glanced at me and coughed. "I mean, I just get the creeps from _being_ here; it's like we're being _watched_ or something."

As much as I hated to admit it, I felt the same way. I twisted my mouth into a detesting look of concern and again strained my eyes to the dark. My skin suddenly bristled when I swear I caught the sound of something in the brush just ten yards away. There were no creatures, at least not from what I'd explicitly listened for earlier. This was something else.

I waited and hunched while Alistair babbled on. When no other sounds obstructed the woods, I hesitantly straightened and turned to him.

"Really, Alistair, you mustn't scare like a frightened child from every little bump in the woods," I chided. "It's nothing more than a fo-"

I was not allowed to finish my sentence. Alistair's hand was on my shoulder and I only caught a second's glimpse of his terrified face before my own slammed into the ground. I heard his horrible scream, followed by an inhuman snarl as the creature twisted over him and dragged him to the ground.

I was on my feet in an instant with threatening hands raised towards his attacker. There was a split second - a brief shock of horror where I witnessed his torn arm gripped in the fangs of the beast. It's beady yellow eyes dared me to take its meal. I didn't mind tempting its offer.

With a quick swing and snap of my wrist I tore the Fade violently open and felt the rush of wind explode beneath my feet and uproot the monster. He released Alistair with a howl and was knocked back, though only for a moment. Alistair took this opportunity to jaggedly crawl to his feet and draw his sword, though his arm would be useless. He was bleeding too quickly - he would pass out before he could make one swing.

I stepped in front of him, then felt his good arm grab my shoulder again.

"Isthalla, your left!" he shouted. I swung around in time to see another beast thundering towards me on all fours, jaws open and claws ready. I raised up my hands in time to bind him in a temporary state of sleep, then turned back to the other creature, who had since taken the opportunity to climb back to his hind legs and tower over us both.

I had prepared myself for the inevitable lunge when an arrow struck it through the skull. Three more followed - two in its throat, and one in the eye. They materialized from the shadows like vapor, bows drawn and ready. Two more beasts I hadn't even seen suddenly burst from the brush, and I only had a moment to decide that I was of more use protecting Alistair and grudgingly stepped back to allow these strangers to take over.

They downed the beasts in only a few seconds. One managed to come so close it only fell with a fourth arrow to its skull, just inches from the feet of its opposition. I was still trying to help Alistair regain his balance (and consciousness) when the supposed leader of the intruders stepped forward.

"I am Mithra, and these are my scouts," she gestured to those behind her - another one flanked beside her. I surveyed their odd armor and tattoos, then reconciled that they were elves. "We are the Dalish," she answered my question before it could arise, "What are you doing in our forest?"

It was then that Alistair slumped again, finally too weak to stay conscious, and nearly yanked me to the ground with him.


	50. Incompetent

"Our patrols have been attacked by them for weeks now," she explained while striding across the morning-lit camp. I glanced to see that many of the cots were already filled with their own people - some disfigured by the change, and others too wounded to move. Blood pervaded the air and burned my nose. I tried to ignore it.

"_Them_?" I asked. She turned to me, eyes stern-set, and nodded.

"The beasts - werewolves," she explained.

_Oh, because certainly mythical monsters are the first thing to come to mind._

My shadow companion had returned with a vengeance. Her punishment had been to keep me awake all night with her most mundane and aggravating of riddles. As if I did not have enough to worry about now.

We continued across camp in a quick stride, Mithra both understanding my urgency and needing to explain as much as she could before the others joined us. She stopped me just before we reached the group, and turned to me.

"Your two friends have been infected - for that I am sorry," she consoled in a rather genuine voice. For the first time I did not protest the use of such a title to the two people lying on those cots. As we stepped towards the crowd, the occupants parted to reveal the gruesome truth under the morning light.

Alistair lay on one cot, his wounds now bandaged though purpled by the poison now spreading through his veins. Opposite lay Leliana, with the claw-marks still bright red across her collar. I lingered over the image, then looked up to both Mithra and her second, Shaw.

"Like the rest, they will turn unless a cure is found," Mithra began.

"Or the curse is lifted," Shaw added. Mithra shot him a glare, then continued without interruption.

"Our hunters are too few now to risk on another scouting expedition into the heart of the beast's lair."

"You are lucky to be alive, friend," Shaw frowned.

"Keeper Zathrian will fill you in on the details, but with luck you will succeed where we have failed," Mithra finished, though I could hear the resentment in her voice from admitting such. She had lost many good people, most that were her friends. All she considered family.

Mithra and Shaw both left us to our wounded. Once they were gone, the others shifted to form a semi-circle around our fallen companions. I remained standing alongside Alistair, trying to separate my personal concerns from the issue at hand.

_You fool, why did you risk yourself?_

I did not want to think of the answers to that question. My mind was miles away when Sten interrupted my thoughts. Glancing up, I flitted my eyes and pretended I hadn't forgotten what he asked.

"I will go to the Keeper," I decided. Sten's face crinkled.

"How do you know you can trust these elves with our companions?" he demanded. I looked about to the other wounded - their own - and frowned on my mental assumptions. Perhaps Sten was right. They had no concern for outsiders, and certainly not for two injured humans in their camp.

"That is beside the point," Wynne butted in. "We must do anything we can to help, even if it means leaving them here for the time being."

"Perhaps one of us should stay to watch over our own?" Morrigan suggested.

"No," I cut back in before someone else could interject. "We need everyone able for this journey. I don't want another one of those mongrels springing up on us when we least expect it."

"We will leave them here then, without any protection," Sten said. He was not inquiring, but laying out an ugly truth. He sounded doubtful already. My mind jumped into motion and I shook my head again.

"We will have Bodahn and Sandal here to look after them both," I glanced down. I didn't want to say their names. It would only drive the knife deeper. "He will make sure they come to no harm while we are gone."

_It's all your fault again, little clumsy Isthalla._

If only she would shut up for a little while.

"Or at least stay long enough to watch them turn into mindless beasts," Morrigan frowned. I now became distinctly aware of her tone and accusing eyes that flashed my way.

"If I am not mistaken, was Alistair not already such?" a new voice interrupted. Zevran strolled forward from whatever tree he had been lurking behind, a pleasant smile on his face. Though I found humor in his words, I could see the flesh nearly melting off of Morrigan's furious face by that point.

"If anyone has a problem with my decision, then speak your mind," I snapped. The others silenced. "I will not have childish squabbling reeking under our breath every time I turn my back." Morrigan's eyes snapped to mine.

"Fine, if no one else will say it then I will-" she turned. "If you hadn't wandered off from camp in the middle of the dark then _maybe_ we might not have been ambushed. _Maybe_ we wouldn't be forced to rely on complete strangers to care for our wounded. And _maybe _Alistair wouldn't have been torn apart by one of those monsters because of your incompetence to_ protect your charges_!"

She was in fumes by the time she finished. I could feel the blood boiling in my veins, the threat tearing at my fingertips to injure the one that had challenged me. The Fade strained around us. I clenched my fists and shut the anger out, knowing it would solve nothing to fight about it now. I would not let my emotions get the best of me as Morrigan had.

"Then you will stay here to ensure the safety of _my_ charges, won't you?" I ground out. "Since I am so incapable." With these last biting words, I turned my attention to Sten.

"You, Wynne, and Zevran will go with me to find this festering source and purge it," I explained. "And to make sure that we are not surprised again, I want to move in pairs. Zevran will cover my rear, and you will cover Wynne. Understood?"

Sten nodded, and Wynne said nothing.

"I quite like the idea of protecting such a supple re-"

"Save it, Zevran," I barked. Unperturbed, he shrugged and crossed contented arms behind his head. I turned and strode away before the friction between both Morrigan and I caused the ground to spark with electricity. The others remained uncertainly behind, perhaps to discuss my poor leadership or choice of words. I did not care.

I should have never cared in the first place.

I flexed my hands in and out to rid myself of my frustration once I was out of sight from the others. The camp was now some yards away - I had unconsciously strode to a quiet and abandoned riverbed some way from the heart of the clan. A voice like bells chimed to my left.

"Those are your friends down there," he nodded. I looked down the sloping hill to the temporary infirmary. The others had gathered around them both. Wynne's hands were stretched over Leliana, and from this distance I couldn't tell if it was a spell or a prayer she mumbled over them both. Batty old woman.

"They are my companions," I cut in. "And nothing more."

He shrugged at my statement and stepped forward to lean against the tree. He wasn't much older than Mithra, though had an unwritten innocence to his face where she was etched by a misery worn under leadership; a feeling I knew too well.

"Regardless, I can see your concern," he corrected. I snorted and crossed my arms before turning my attention to the river.

"Is that supposed to be some sort of _elf_ thing?" I remarked. Then, darkening, I shut him out and dimmed my eyes to the outside world. "Sharing ancestry does not imbibe sudden perception of another, elf. You know nothing of me."

When I looked back, the place where he had stood was empty. I twisted around. He was gone. Snorting my indifference, I returned my eyes to the water and shrugged. I did not abandon a conversation so easily, though it was not my problem that some fool elf out of the woods chose to. He was not my kin.

_Why so hostile to your own kind?_

_This is not your business, she-devil._

_Oh, you can do better than that, my venomous pet._

_I said shut up._

I let out an exasperated noise from my throat and swiftly turned to stalk back to camp. Thankfully the Keeper was at the other edge of the clan, giving me enough walking distance to push my forefront frustrations to the back of my mind long enough to discuss plans with him.

After about a half-hour we were ready to set off, our packs filled with supplies enough to last a week - though we would hopefully only be a few days. Zathrian's conversation had not relieved me any, and this nonsense about a curse and some blighted forest deity or spirit did not ease my tension. Demons and darkspawn were enough to deal with, but from the sounds of it, the "curse" part was nothing more than Dalish superstition I was glad to shrug off. I just wanted this journey over with.

We left that same day near noon, though my concerns over the path were no more appeased by the Keeper's grave message. He expected me to just stumble upon their werewolf den like it was at their doorstep. He had warned me the trees sought to protect its secrets, but I did not heed this message until we stepped foot from camp and an unnatural fog settled behind us and blocked the passage back.

"I suppose this means we are alone," Wynne said uneasily. Sten nodded, and Zevran languidly fell in behind me as we walked in a tight line through the forest.

"If only the trees were a little more forgiving, I might stride ahead to find a better trail," my assassin attempted to ease. It did not sway my concerns.

"Zathrian warned us not to stray from the marked game trails," I argued. "Otherwise we will be trapped here forever."

"Forever is not so long when you consider the _lovely_ company,"he tried again. He paused and glanced back to our tallest and greyest of companions, and frowned. "Or perhaps not," he said. I could hear an audible growl of disapproval from Sten and had to withhold a slight smile. If anything, Zevran spoke his mind quite tellingly.

"I propose a game!" my would-be follower piped up when another dragging hour passed by in silence. My anger had since left and I found myself amused by his optimism, however conceited. "Who can finish my sentence: The dirtiest story involving only a rock, a feather, and a supple maiden! What, no takers?" he gestured, then laughed. "Only myself then, I suppose."

For the next three hours Zevran entertained us as best he could, coloring his one-sided conversations with everything from one-line jokes to elaborate and rather explicit stories that caused Wynne to blush and occasionally chuckle.

By the time dark arrived we had only managed to find the second landmark Zathrian had discerned for me. I decided to erect a small camp - it was no use wandering around in the dark again - and fortified an opening in the woods protected by tall dirt and clay overhangs. Sten started a fire while Wynne and I set up tents, leaving Zevran to the duty of finding something suitable to eat for supper.

He returned not long after we finished erecting our tents, a catch of squirrel in his grasp.

"There were traps lain by your friends the hunters," he exclaimed. "They were quite successful, though I'm afraid two of them… _wriggled _free."

"With their necks broken?" I mused. He smiled and sat down beside me by the fire, waving his prize.

"Ah, but they had the friendly help of another to ease them from their suffering," he smiled.

"Is that not stealing?" Wynne interjected.

"They won't mind," I quickly cut in before she could fluster herself up into the self-important enchanter I knew her to be. She settled down into her seat once she caught my gaze, though did not seem too pleased at having a mage half her age quiet her tongue. With the freshly-cut squirrels boiling in a stew, Wynne soured over on her own log for the rest of the evening to let me know she didn't appreciate my insolence. Not that it ever made a difference.

After the stew had settled in our stomachs, Wynne briskly took to her own tent without a goodnight, and I made my way over to my own tent, with Sten electing to take the first watch. I stopped beside the silent Qunari, my eyes glancing briefly to what looked like a gesturing Zevran, then placed a hand on his shoulder. He flinched.

"Sten?" I questioned. I did not want to ask if he was okay. I knew it was pointless. Despite Zevran trying to make light of it, I knew how serious the situation was. Morrigan was furious with me, and Wynne was as frustrated as she had always been. Now was just another excuse to use her most competent looks of disappointment. Sten, however, was a different matter. He hadn't said a word since the dispute at camp. I admit it worried me.

"You have made the best choice at your disposal," he said after Zevran disappeared into a tent. His back stayed as rigid as stone, his posture unchanged as he regarded me. "I do not believe that makes you incompetent. You are sometimes foolish and often undisciplined by your actions, but that is no reason to question your leadership."

"You told me I was not your leader," I crossed my arms. Sten rose to his feet then, towering above me as always, and turned to look me in the eyes.

"No, you are mistaken. I said I did not believe you were capable of being so," he corrected me. "Yet you have proven yourself and so I give you my apology. I falsely assumed your leadership, but I do not question it. You have earned my respect, kadan."

I felt a sharp sting in my chest, something I wasn't quite sure was present until the last words fell on my ears. I bowed my head low so he wouldn't see the unwanted tears burning my eyes. I sniffed, then quickly raised my hands to my face.

"Why do you cry?" he asked quite honestly. I raised my head with a slight laugh and tried to quell them before they could fall. Sten's slightly befuddled face came back into view, and I sniffed again for good measure, then dropped my hand. I smiled at him.

"Guilt, perhaps. Relief. Dismay," I shrugged, still trying to calm myself.

"Are these normal emotions associated to tears?" His genuine curiosity only caused me to laugh more, and my eyes to well briefly again before clearing for the last time. I breathed in deep through my nose and looked back up to him.

"Sometimes," I nodded. "It's a way to express an indescribable feeling. When your emotions are so conflicted, it often causes shock. Which, I suppose, leads to crying." He didn't say anything, though I could see the question on his face, so I continued. I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked at the ground.

"You should know no one's ever said that to me," I croaked. Clearing my throat, I shook my head and looked up. "I suppose that's partly because I never felt I deserved it." A meek smile crossed my lips, and when I couldn't hold his questioning gaze anymore I pressed my fingertips together and strayed across the scars covering my palms.

"Thank you, Sten," I nodded. Looking up, I smiled at him and nodded again. "Really, thank you."

"You are welcome, Grey Warden."

I briefly touched his arm in a gesture of kindness - one I never practiced, and even less felt it was my place to do so - and was thankful that he did not flinch this time. With nothing more to say, I turned and walked back to my tent. Inside Zevran was crouched over a small leather-bound book he had apparently found and took upon himself to read. Once I recognized the shape and design, I leapt forward with a squall and tried to snatch it from his hands.

"I must say, I quite enjoy being described as - what was it?" he paused, peered down at the book, and smiled. "Ah, '_generously receptive and unexpectedly charming' - _that is a very good description, though I would have detailed more on my supple frame and sultry eyes."

I finally wriggled from his one-armed grasp, toppled over his shoulder, and snatched the book in the process. "You thieving bastard," I hissed while shutting the book tight and wrapping the binding over it. I should have hexed the damn thing. Rather than slink away as his Maker-given sense should have told him to do, the fool burst out laughing instead.

"Oh, what a cute little minx you make when you are angry," he smiled. I huffed and whipped my arm back and curtly smacked him on the arm with the book before I could think better of myself. He only laughed more, and by a sharp prick of memory I recalled my dear Jowan. Maker's blood boil him - the trite idiot was either skirting his way across Ferelden by now or terrorizing some small animal with his so-called skills.

_Or he could be dead.. _my she-wolf companion chuckled.

I should have never let him go at Redcliffe. The idiot wouldn't get ten miles without my help. Yet I had willingly pushed him so, and tearstruck, angry - I told him to get out of my sight before the guards appeared. We never addressed what happened at the tower. My anger had blinded me so - and in return my last memory of my best friend was his dirt-smudged heel and broken heart.

Zevran's laughter died very soon after my own smile left. I fell back on my heel and flashed darkened eyes to a candle at my bed. Disheartened, I ran my hand over the top and lit a flame. His attention drew to the brief but always captivating (by non-magi, anyway) display of simple magic. My own attention was severely diminished as the weight of loss settled in my stomach again.

"It is a wonder," he started very hesitantly. His fluttering eyes waited for my own to connect before he continued. I granted him a brief flash. "It is a wonder, my Warden," he continued, "that you have so many faces-" This quickly drew my ire as I set stone-cold eyes on him.

"-yet none I can see so clearly as sorrow," he finished without a flicker of change to his features. Pleasant, drooping eyes followed mine as he bared his ever-fake grin of disdain and conceit. I stared him down relentlessly as he continued his speech.

"Forgive me if I am out of place, but-" he raised a hand. "I must say, as terrible a face it is, there is nothing more passionate about you than when I see you so." I felt myself physically falter, and eyes blink in response to the semantic verse he spoke.

"There is a deep and beautiful sadness in your eyes," he tilted his head and slighted his narrowed gaze. "I daresay it is also the fire behind your heart, and the reason you keep it so tightly locked away." I felt exposed, and suddenly needed a reason to busy myself so I wouldn't have to look at him anymore.

Deciding to tidy an already-clean tent, I shuffled around on my knees and started to needlessly rearrange my few things I'd brought along on our travels.

"If this is some form of ploy to bed me, assassin, you are wasting your time," I clenched my jaw and tried to hide my crumbling posture. The weight of it all was slowly pressing in on me, crushing me down until I realized just how truly alone I had become. Alistair and Leliana could very well be dead because of me. As could Jowan or any other unfortunate soul that had sacrificed their body in the path of my destructive will. Some had already paid that price - all good people; those that did not deserve to die. Those that should not have, if I had been a better teacher. A better friend.

"Please leave," I demanded, though it came out in a crackling whisper. I sucked in my breath too loudly, and felt the demanding weight squeezing the air from my lungs. My heart pounded against my ribs, my head swam, and my body grew cold and frantic. "Get out!" I shouted, my back turned as I began violently shoving my things into packs. What was I doing? My hands shook as I hovered over my bags. I wanted to leave. I wanted to escape. I couldn't take this great and terrible responsibility anymore.

I didn't want anyone else to die because of me.

I felt his urgent hand on my arm before I heard the words. He had barely spoken before I screamed again, this time surging with undeserved fury as I swung around and shoved him away. He tried again, and relentlessly I shouted at him to leave me be, then turned into pitiful sobs as I sunk into my lap and cried. I didn't want him to see me this way. I was weak, so pitifully weak and disgusting, yet I could not will myself to stop. Tears spilled from my eyes and wails tore from my mouth. I was entirely throttled by grief.

Thankfully my noise was muffled by Zevran's chest. He pressed me hard into it, knowing I could not bear to let the others hear. I wailed like a child in his arms, curled up and defeated. I felt so terribly revolted by my actions, yet I would not stop them. He remained there until my weeping drew to a whimper and I had no more tears to shed. He did not coddle me as I sat up, but simply remained when I chose to draw away and wipe the last of the shameful tears from my eyes.

Head turned and hands folded over my lap, I waited for my heart to calm before I spoke. He could not see my face in the dark - my outburst had unintentionally extinguished the flame I had lit. I had nothing to say on the matter of my grief, yet the emotion continued to hang in the air long after my last sob faded. He waited.

"You were right," I murmured after what felt like an eternity. My voice was empty and dry. I looked at the ground and tried not to think about what I'd done. "But I am not driven by my grief, Zevran. I am bound by it as a slave to its master. It is an unwanted burden, but it is not yours to bear." I looked to him them, my eyes fierce with a threatening fire that dared him to speak a word.

"Nor anyone else in this camp," I warned. He continued to remain frustratingly neutral, his expression lax and mouth unchanged. I began to draw on my weary anger, needing it as a pacifier and stone wall that I might hoist myself against. I looked away when I could not challenge such a passive face with my unmerited hostility.

"Leave me," I demanded.

Zevran rose, and exited the tent without a sound. I looked to the extinguished candle and felt my skin chilled by the night air.


	51. The Lonely

My first waking vision greeted me by the glare of sunlight in my eyes and a scowling woman's face hovering over my own. I would have jumped from my bed were it not for the unnatural stiffness to my limbs. I groaned and blinked until I shaped out dark hair and slightly sun-warm skin against the blinding background that was the morning sun.

"I-Isthalla?" I muttered. The scowl deepened on the woman's face, and after another blink I noticed the absence of her tell-tale red tattoos and pointy elf ears. Morrigan frowned down at me. Oh, right.

_Well I am certainly an ass._

"Good to see you are _finally _awake," she chastised. I groaned and tried to sit up, Morrigan forced to assist as I came to terms with how sore my arm was.

"Maker's _balls_ I feel like I've been hit by a battering ram," I clenched my teeth and swung my legs over the cot, pressing one hand to my aching head. I heard Morrigan huff and crouch beside me before running a hand over my arm. I jumped when foreign pain shot down my arm.

"Ouch, that hurts!" I yelped while trying to pull away. She slapped at my hand and continued to work away the bandaging.

"Well of course it hurts, you blundering oaf," she snapped. I didn't appreciate the name-calling. "You _were _attacked by a werewolf."

"Wh- Wait _what?_?" I said. She tsk'd while removing the last of the bandaging. Beneath was what looked like use to be my arm. Instead was a mangled mess badly-stitched together.

"You've been cured, though I don't suppose your wounds have healed so quickly," she continued. "Now that we can properly address them."

"Can someone please explain to me what's happened?" I groaned in frustration while squinting my eyes against the unforgiving rays still penetrating my eyes. "Maker, it's hot."

"It is a moderate temperature and you are only just over a fever," she corrected. I hated how she talked down to me like that. I tried to show my frustration, but she would not grant me the honor of looking up. I looked down instead to my arm, which now glowed with a green light. She was working my arm over with healing magic, or attempting so.

"Shouldn't Wynne be doing this?" I said once I recalled Morrigan was no mage for healing magic. Wynne should have much less difficulty mending my wounds, rather than Morrigan having to tax her magic so. I was met with the most vicious glare only seconds after the words left my mouth.

"If you would prefer, I shall let you sit here and rot in your festering wounds and ungrateful attitude!" she barked. My chest jumped in alarm.

"No, no, no! That's not what I meant at all," I laughed while trying to raise my hand to stop her, and grimaced when I felt that horrible pain shoot up my shoulder again. I groaned and dropped it dejectedly at my side. Morrigan paused. After a moment of hesitation, she returned back to my side and continued to work over my shoulder.

"Pray tell me you have a better explanation," she bit back. I sucked in a breath when my arm began to throb. She was not being kind with her magic.

"I only meant that, well - Wynne has a knack for this sort of thing, doesn't she?" I attempted. Still no response. Another pulse up my arm, and I tried not to wince. "I just didn't want you to become frustrated."

She relaxed after this, finally. After a few more minutes in silence, she decided to grace me with conversation.

"For the moment, Wynne's assistance is employed in another part of camp," she explained. Her eyebrows raised on her head and mouth tightened in that _I'm-still-irritated _way I recognized as her attempt at being civil. I tried not to smile. "She's needed for more… _complex _wounds now under mend for the Dalish."

"The Dalish?" I straightened and looked about me. Small groups of elves stood about, and only then did I become aware of the large, mythical land-ships named aravels that circled the camp. "The Dalish…" I smiled, completely enamored by the legend I now sat in the middle of. "Maker, I never thought I'd see this in my lifetime."

"Well recall it quickly, for we depart at noon," she rejoined me in conversation. I glanced down.

"Noon? Why so soon?"

"Are you attempting to play a fool, Alistair, because I quite tire of it!" she barked. Though I felt offended by her insistence at belittling me, I pressed on.

"Uh, hello-" I pointed at my head. "I've been unconscious for Maker knows how long. Not exactly aware of what's going on here." I paused then, crumpling my brow, turned to Morrigan. "What exactly _happened_?"

Possessed by some brief spark of kindness, she finally loosened her scowl a bit and stopped healing my arm for a moment to speak. Her eyes looked up to me.

"We were attacked in the woods, do you not remember?" I worked through the fog of my mind, faintly recognizing the memory though not fully grasping it. A brief flash of yellow eyes and fangs seared my mind. I shook my head.

"Not really, no…" Though annoyed, she did not chastise me for my lack of knowledge. I was grateful.

"We were attacked by werewolves. Both yourself and Leliana were… infected. So to speak," she shifted her eyes about. "Your fellow _Warden_ took Sten, Wynne, and Zevran out into the woods to hunt down a forest creature that supposedly had the cure.

"After three days the elves' Keeper went to find them," she looked away, "and shortly after returned and claimed all to be cured. No Keeper to speak of."

"Well," I sucked in a breath and put my hand back to my head. "That's certainly a lot to take in." I looked across camp with a sudden frown, then turned to Morrigan with remembered concern. "Is Isthalla all right?"

What looked like anger faded behind an unreadable mask of error I had undoubtedly conjured. Morrigan's face grew ill and tight as she drew to her feet and pressed her mouth together.

"_Fine_," she ground out and stormed off. My eyes followed her across camp until she disappeared behind the trees, then drew my attention to another rapidly-approaching mage of equal disdain.

"Dunno what that was all about," I laughed half-heartedly and nodded towards Morrigan's flashing figure between the trees. She glanced back in half-interest, then stopped directly in front of me with her arms cocked. She surveyed me in an odd way, still unchanged, and spoke.

"How are you feeling?" she asked. Genuine surprise entered my expression when I responded; it was unusual for Isthalla to concern herself with others, much less someone like me. I smiled.

"Well other than the nearly-dying part, I think I'm all right," I chuckled. She wasn't amused. I sighed loudly and rolled my head to loosen my neck. "Honestly just a bit sore all over. I haven't been sleeping on rocks, have I?"

When she didn't respond I dropped my good arm back down and stopped smiling. She looked more troubled than usual, and I felt compelled to ask what was wrong despite knowing what always happened when I _did_ ask. Either with a hex up my arse or a new reason to send me a nasty glare over her shoulder for the rest of the day. I suppose I could chance it.

"Are you feeling all right?" I tried. She bristled, as expected, but rather than lash out I watched her completely crumple into her own body - which was tiny as it was, making her seem too terribly small. Sometimes I forgot she was a foot my size.

"If you feel anything unusual, come to me straight away," she did not address my question. Then, flashing her fire-eyes at me added, "that's an _order_."

As if I didn't know already.

Honestly, I didn't understand the hostility from all the women. Or perhaps it was a witch thing. Did witches somehow line up their monthly flow perhaps? That might explain some things. I swear, it was like trying to appease an angry cat sometimes. A really, really angry cat.

"Wynne thought you might like this," she interrupted my thoughts and dropped something into my lap then briskly walked away. I was still a bit confused by the time I looked down. In my hands was a small carving of a stone dragon. Every scale was meticulously detailed, and the eyes were painted a bright gold. Impressed, I turned over the tiny statue in my hand and admired it. When I looked up to thank her, she, too, was gone from my sight.

"Huh," I mused aloud, still turning over the present in my hand. I held it up to the morning light and smiled. "I think I'll call you Sam," I decided. "Would you like that name? Of course you would, you're a statue." I let it rest in my lap again, hands cradled around as I regarded my new friend.

"Statues can't talk back," I explained. "In that respect, we are very much alike my friend." I ran a thumb over the smooth stone surface, then looked back up to the places where my misplaced companions had stormed off too.

"No one really listens to a statue," I sighed.


	52. A Forgotten Truth

At noon we left the Dalish just as Morrigan said. I began to worry when Bodahn's cart was nearly ready and Morrigan still did not appear, at least not until the last moment. She seemingly materialized from the side of the cart as if she'd never left, and took point at the furthest corner of the gathering.

After double-checking over a drawn map with a hunter called Mithra, we set off and soon enough the tall sails of the Dalish aravels disappeared behind a wall of trees. I fell in step behind Sten, with Leliana at my back and Bodahn bringing up the rear as always.

It was a surprisingly easy journey from the forest, and soon enough we were free from the thicket of trees and bushes and once again walked upon cold, unwelcome plains that stretched on into the distance. I could see Isthalla at the front of the line holding up what appeared to be the treaties, then quickly rolled the parchment up again and strode onward.

I soon became distinctly aware of a change in rank to our party's assembly. Where Morrigan usually stood, Sten had replaced nearly beside Isthalla. Behind him, Wynne, then Morrigan and Zevran, and myself and Leliana a good dozen paces behind to give ample personal space. Leliana, I was told, was injured also and had been out of the fray of our fun-loving leader's adventures just as long. I found a common interest in conversation, and decidedly fell back to have a chat. Perhaps she would prove a little more receptive to friendliness than the other women in our group.

"So, how's werewolf-ism treating you?" I decided with a serious brow-raise. She chuckled and flashed a warm smile despite the pallor to her face from the infection.

"Quite nicely, it seems," she nodded. "And you?"

"Other than the excessive shedding and occasional bloodthirsty hunger, I think I could get use to this," I said quite seriously. "Though I'm not too fond of the fleas."

She laughed - it was a warm and happy sound. Something our party dearly lacked. I sighed when the warmth faded and I was reminded of our dreary and miserable companions. My eyes once again fleshed out the crowd, and noticed both of our witchy young companions were exceptionally rigid on this day. And still separated.

"Know anything about that?" I inquired with a tilt of my head. My wary eyes jumped to Isthalla, who was impossibly distanced from us both, though that didn't stop my suspicion as I waited to see those giant ears twitch in response.

"What do you mean?" Leliana asked. I nodded again.

"By now Morrigan and Isthalla should be cooking up another new hex to try out on me for supper," I frowned. "They haven't spoken a word to each other all day."

"You don't know?" she gasped. Leliana put a hand to her chest and I swear she smiled. I furrowed my brow in confusion.

"What, no. Why would I?" I shrugged. Her open mouth quickly twisted into a smile and she giggled before taking hold of my arm and leaning close. I blushed in slight alarm, though did not push her away.

"Morrigan is _jealous _of Isthalla," she whispered to me. By the tone of her voice, she thrived on this news. Obviously she had been waiting to tell someone all morning. I was more confused than before.

"Why would she be jealous?" I asked in surprise. Morrigan did not seem like the petty sort, especially over something like envy. No, she was way too proud.

"You must truly be blind, my friend," she chuckled, still keeping her voice low despite the fact neither Morrigan or Isthalla were remotely able to eavesdrop. Despite this, I leaned in to humor Leliana's incessant need to whisper her gossip. "She is jealous because of _you_, silly Alistair."

"_What?"_ I barked a little too loudly. I caught a glance from Wynne, and quickly hunkered down and returned to whispers. "How is this possibly about _me_?"

"Well," Leliana began with a mischievous glint in her eye, "when we were attacked at camp, Morrigan realized too late you had gone after Isthalla."

She pointed briefly to the front of the line where Isthalla walked, then nodded. "And when we rejoined you both, Isthalla was sitting on the ground holding you in her arms. We didn't know what to think," she grew a bit serious. "But then we saw the blood; I cannot imagine what Morrigan thought."

"Oh," I quieted, feeling the color begin to drain from my face. Maker, I hadn't realized-

"She was so angry, she wouldn't let anyone touch you. Morrigan didn't much like that," Leliana shook her head. "I wasn't awake for much longer, but I remember they were both arguing when I passed out, and _still_ arguing when I awoke this morning." She laughed at this last part, though I found no humor in it. Only grave concern.

"And Morrigan?" I tried. Leliana's eyes flashed to the witch, who paid no heed to us both. I waited.

"Isthalla made her stay behind, to look out for us both," she explained. "Bodahn said she looked positively livid when Isthalla gave her the order, though supposedly she stayed by your cot most of the time."

"When they got back, Isthalla stepped right over Morrigan and demanded you be attended to first. I heard it was a nasty argument."

"O-Oh, I'm… sorry Leliana," I tried to comfort her awkwardly for the neglect she'd suffered. She seemed unperturbed, and shrugged it off meaninglessly.

"It's no matter, really," she smiled. "You were far more injured than I; it was only right that she look out for our only other Grey Warden."

"Wynne eventually stepped in and convinced Isthalla to tend to the injured Dalish first," she said. "You see, they returned without the Keeper after he'd left to go find them earlier that day. Isthalla would not immediately explain what had happened, which obviously caused tension. We were only a few words away from turning into a pincushion for arrows, it seems," she laughed. I felt my stomach drop.

"Maker's breath," I muttered.

"Morrigan was left to attend to you, from what I could tell once I awoke," she continued. I furrowed my brow and turned to her.

"How did you find all this out?" I asked, honestly confused. She couldn't possibly have seen it - she was unconscious the entire time.

"Bodahn, of course," she smiled. "He tells me all sorts of things."

"Oh, right," I flattened. How stupid. She was always sitting on the back of the cart and endlessly chatting away to him. Of course he'd tell her all of his secret observations. I should make note to befriend him in the future.

My attention shifted again to the pointy-eared, fierce little elf at the front of our party. Her feathered black hair bobbed with her step, heels barely touching the ground before she glided ahead. She made walking look so easy; I wondered if it was some form of natural art to elf-kind. I'd never stopped to consider before.

"I see your admiring eye has found our pretty leader," Leliana's sing-song voice tittered in my ear. I immediately went red and hunkered into my shoulders before glancing anywhere else.

"What? _No_, no- I just-" I struggled for an excuse, my ears burning. I found a meager explanation and grasped to conjure it into a sentence. "I'm just surprised she made such a fuss over me," I tried. That didn't help any. The words sounded foreign on my tongue, and suddenly I was blushing all over again.

"Maker, I didn't mean that, I just-" I stumbled, then gave up in frustration when I had no means to explain myself. Leliana giggled.

"It is not so hard to see why," she smiled. My eyes went wide as I considered her accusation and felt my entire mind and body reject the notion.

"Maker's _beard_, you're joking! That woman _detests _me!" I yelped. Another glance, this time from Morrigan. I withered and tried to lower my frantic voice. "Common sense would tell _anyone _that she considers me the bane of her existence," I laughed in a strained, exasperated tone.

"Not from my perspective," Leliana smiled in that clever sort of way. I was beginning to get frazzled in my attempts to defend myself. I paused for a moment before I spoke, and looked back to the front of the line where she walked.

What exactly _was_ I trying to defend? The concept that Isthalla _hated _me with every fiber of her being? I frowned as I took in her posture - rigid, confident, closed. Not that I ever wanted to earn her loathing, but affection was the last thing I would ever pair with a creature like her.

"That was unkind," I frowned and shook my head.

"What was?" Leliana appeared after a few minutes had passed between our last conversation and my thoughts. I jumped slight and glanced to her.

"O-Oh nothing. Nothing. Just-" I looked back. "I was talking to myself," I corrected while shaking my head. She took this signal to leave and fell back to climb on the cart and sit beside Bodahn. My eyes drew back to their leader, _my _leader and companion.

We began to curve around a fairly-marked trail across the plains, allowing me for a time to survey her profile. Her eyes were strictly set ahead, though I could see something had changed. I had been with her longer than all of the others, yet still I felt sometimes I knew absolutely nothing about Isthalla.

As a boy I was taught to fear and oppose everything she represented. She was a considerable threat for any templar - fearless, brave, and confident. She could will herself into any guise she supposed, and at times I believed even outshined Morrigan in terms of shape-shifting personas. Despite this, the remaining constant that structured what was considered her true face was scarred and bitter.

The last time I'd witnessed her truly cry was after Ostagar. I'd stumbled upon a seemingly powerful creature, one I considered as hard as stone, only to find instead a weeping child curled up in the roots of a tree. This was not the image as painted by the templar. Magi were supposed to be evil, wicked creatures that took any opportunity to strip others of their dignity and will for the sake of their own greed. In all my time traveling I'd waited for this monster to appear, but it never did. The closest monster I had ever witnessed was simply a wounded young woman who had been wronged by her peers and only sought to defend herself, whether by reputation or her own flesh.

The hatred I had so often perceived as directed only at myself I discovered over the months was instead a vast and deep well that drew upon old wounds. She had been wronged so many times before by templars that she lashed out at anyone bearing a slight association to the title. Myself included.

Perhaps it was my lack of knowledge over females, or that I was simply bad at reading someone on a first try. I came to the conclusion that her anger was directed towards anything that represented a templar. I fell under that unfortunate category, despite my attempts at rectifying that issue. Regardless of how many times I explained, I was seen to her as a templar.

_She loved him. A templar._

My mind hazed sharply as I heard the strange phrase murmured in my head. Though vague familiarity struck me, it slipped through my memory like sand through my fingers. Something to do with the tower. I couldn't quite place it. Ever since we left Redcliffe, our brief visit to the tower was but a foggy plane of darkness despite my futile attempts to remember. Though I could recall the half-crazed templar we met at the stairs (in which Isthalla had a shouting match with), something pricked my mind in connection to that woman's voice. I couldn't think.

Frustrated, I looked up again and was surprised to find Isthalla's face had softened. I remember that look. I'd asked Morrigan about the infernal name she kept shouting while we were clearing the tower. I'd never asked if she found him, unless-

It struck my belly like ice water. I was a _fool_ not to consider it before. Yes, she'd said his name when we entered the room. How in Maker's name had I forgotten? The templar.

_Cullen._

I could not understand how I had forgotten something so simple. A headache was forming between my eyes, and after a shake of my head I pressed two fingers to the bridge. I repeated the name again until the fog cleared. He was the templar; the same man she'd looked for. The same man that drove a stake through my belly.

How could she possibly love him after the way he treated her? Everyone saw what happened at the tower. He was a templar, a fully trained and knighted templar of the same like that she hated. He didn't deserve her attention much less love. How was _I_ to be refuted for a simple slip of words yet _he _was forgiven after the wretched things he had continuously spouted over "her kind"? Just imagining his cold, greedy templar fingers all over her made me ill.

_Maker_, what did I care?

I realized I was blushing furiously with a scowl on my face - a strange combination sure to draw attention soon enough. I did my best to remain neutral, yet the infuriating paradox of her so-called templar lover remained burning in my mind all afternoon. How was he any different than me? I was only a half-templar, yet she appeared more than content to forgive a full templar like him. It wasn't fair.

_And I am not jealous._

Though the more I mentally repeated the phrase, the more I found myself mulling over my frustration. What _did_ I care if he'd put his hands all over her? It wasn't my business. But _why_ in Maker's name would he even _consider_ it? Why would he consider her, of all the spiteful and bitter little witch elves in that tower? I could understand the physical attraction - _any_ man could.

I glanced up and caught her profile again. She was delicately built like most elves - a slender figure, lean face, and slanted eyes - yet she possessed this distinct quality that set her apart from most other elves I had met. Maybe it was her personality, or the way that she walked. She carried herself proudly, much unlike the servant elves I knew growing up.

Grudgingly, I knew it was beyond that. Her greedy, bastard templar knew how pretty she was. I'd known it from the time I met her, though the prickly demeanor much dissuaded me from any early attempts at pursuit; despite this, it didn't stop me from at least… _accidentally_ admiring her on occasion. She was a very, _very_ prickly rose.

To imagine her cruel-hearted, filthy templar only cared for her visage made me all the more annoyed. He was a shallow and conceited bastard if he couldn't look past that and see that she was more than that - she was smart, she was resourceful, and she was ridiculously fearless (which wasn't always a good thing).

I found myself slowly creating a reason to shed a different light on her, and by evening found myself unable to look away. In the past, I'd intentionally avoided her gaze simply out of fear she might sneak into my mind with her witchy thoughts and hex me. The more reasons I created why her templar should care about her, the more I found myself realizing just how little I'd done so myself. The less prickly she appeared.

Maybe she simply had bad experiences with templars growing up, or maybe it was for being patronized as an elf, or as a mage. Maybe both. Maybe it wasn't my business at all. I'd seen her smile before - not often, but enough to know she wasn't an entirely grumpy person. From a distance on many occasions I'd watched her sit and talk around a fire with Morrigan. Exchange spells with Wynne. Discuss important things with Sten. All the while she never glared, never raised her voice, and certainly never hexed _their_ smallclothes.

So why _just_ me?

In the beginning I believed it was because I was a man. As soon as her _assassin_ entered the picture, however, I discovered quite quickly she took no issue with men. Especially men that made vulgar comments about her figure and bosom all the time. Stupid assassin.

As darkness descended she chose a marginally protected groove in the plains to make camp. Bodahn was smart enough to collect wood while we were in the Brecilian forest, leaving us with more than enough kindling for campfires. I half-heartedly busied myself with unloading the cart along with Bodahn and Sten. My eyes wandered so often to where she helped Wynne set up tents that Bodahn waved a hand in my face at one point and asked what I was doing.

After everyone settled and found their places around the built campfires, I went for a walk on my own when I decided I couldn't face sitting around everyone else. I didn't want to say something stupid to her or have an outburst and regret it for the rest of my life.

I walked until the sound of chattering and Leliana's mandolin faded almost entirely. It was chilly tonight - Bodahn mentioned we were heading for Denerim to follow up a lead on the Sacred Ashes. I wondered if I might be able to find my sister while we were there. I'd have to ask Isthalla perhaps before we arrived. Reminded of my frustrations, I began to kick needlessly at the ground until I uprooted the dying grass.

I circled about my empty hill for a half-hour before giving up and flopping down against the slope of a hill. I sighed and crossed my arms behind my head. The sky was clear as glass, and every star shone like a light from the Maker's throne. I remember nights like this when I was a boy, lying outside the stables and watching for a falling star. I always wished it might bring my mother back somehow.

She found her way almost soundlessly beside me. I didn't realize who it was until I caught a glimpse of her bright red markings.

"I-Isthalla," I scrambled to sit up, my heart pounding, and waited for her to start shouting. She did not not. Instead, she simply sat down right beside me and pulled her knees to her chest, forming a tight and protective cocoon to rest in. Her head was turned, though she knew I was there. I rested on my elbows and waited for some form of cold remark or angry retort to send me away. When none came, my heart began to pound in anticipation of the completely foreign territory I knew I had somehow embarked upon.

"I'm sorry, Alistair," she finally said after what felt like an eternity. My heart stopped pounding as I sat completely up and tilted my head.

"W-What do you mean?" I said in a half-laugh edged by anxiety. I could see her face now; she had slightly turned, though much of her bangs hid her features. She was looking down.

"I should have done my duty and protected you," she spoke as if she had rehearsed the line all morning. This was entirely unlike her. I squinted and leaned forward as if I hadn't quite heard.

"I'm sorry?" I asked, completely surprised. She whipped her head around, but rather than anger I saw raw grief in her eyes, though not teary. Her eyes shined and face spoke sincerity.

"I'm _sorry_," she repeated much clearer. I was taken aback, honestly. She looked down too quickly, then shrank into her arms again.

"_Isthalla_," I scoffed in an incredulous voice once I connected her apology. "It's okay, really!" I shook my head. "You did more than enough," I said. "I should be thanking you, really," I smiled sincerely. "You saved my life."

Somehow I had said the right thing. Some sort of trigger released and like a late blossom she suddenly unfurled her arms and legs and released the invisible tension from her body. A deep, lengthy sigh stretched from her lips.

"Not soon enough," she mumbled, though she no longer held the edge as before. I was entirely relieved.

"Well no one expects you to be perfect," I shrugged while resuming my place on my back. I put my arms behind my head and basked in the wonderful neutrality of our conversation. This was a first. "I'm not perfect, certainly…" I shrugged, then smiled. "Though I'd like to pretend so."

"Well that we can agree on," she decided. "Your vanity and oafishness."

"_Hey_," I frowned, "you aren't exactly the model of _perfection_ either, miss prickly pear."

"How are pears prickly?"

"Well I'm sure they _can _be."

"Do you know for certain?"

"Well…. _no_. But there has to be!"

"Oh?"

"Well, why else would someone use that phrase?"

"Perhaps because they are poorly-versed linguists like yourself?"

"Poorly… _what_?"

"Exactly."

I heard her chuckle and I felt my chest warm at the sound. Maker, it was nice to hear her laugh. Even a little. All of this war and blood and despair puts a damper on a man's spirit. I could listen to that all day and be content.

She talked for a little bit longer, and I was more than happy to listen. Odd stories about mischief from her old tower friends, tales she read in books, and a few recent adventures in camp I'd somehow missed. I never wanted her to stop talking. I didn't want to lose that moment, a place I had somehow captured and befriended an intelligent, strong woman that had sworn to hate me. We were _friends_ here.

She got up to leave when she found nothing more to say and realized I had not said anything back. I quickly turned over in my panic and called out her name.

"Isthalla, wait-" I paused the second it left my mouth. What would I say? Please stay, I need to remain in this bubble of brief friendship? Maker no.

She was waiting expectantly and I could not think of the damnest thing to say to her. I fumbled over myself, patting my body down in a sudden, frantic need to find it. My fingers grasped my prize - in my belt satchel - and produced the carving she'd given to me earlier that morning. I saw her ears twitch in the slightest when she realized what it was.

"I, uh-" I looked down at it, then back to her. "I wanted to thank you," I slowly formed the words as I came up with them. "For this," I held it up. She looked at me for a long moment before carefully crumpling her brow.

"You're… welcome," she said, quite unsure of how to react. After a slight frown, she turned and disappeared over the hill. I groaned in exasperation and flopped backward onto the grass, statue in one hand.

"Sam, you have got to do better next time," I shook my head.


	53. Chasind

_Denerim's not far now._

By the map's indication, we were only a half-day's travel away from the city, though looking across the expanse of empty plains ahead of us, it seemed like forever. The afternoon sun blazed overhead and bared down upon us with unforgivable heat. Not a cloud in sight.

The others were all lounging about just off the main road, with a makeshift blanket and satchels scattered about whilst everyone ate lunch. I was not hungry. I was crawling with anticipation. My skin trembled as if electric currents ran across it. I had grown wearily aware of just how open the road had become since we left the protective bosom of the Brecilian Forest. Now that we were back on a marked path, I grew sharply aware of how unprotected we were to potential threats such as bandits. Or assassins.

I was not stupid. Zevran was one of many attempts on our lives, and if I knew the arrogance and cruelty of our opposition, he would not stop until someone returned with a box full of our body parts.

_Loghain, you seething coward._

Aggravated, I rolled back up the map and stuffed it into my satchel slung over my shoulder, then decided to take another lap around our company to scout the area. I ignored the imploring calls from Wynne and Bodahn, only briefly picking up my pace to walk out of earshot before they could stop me. Once over another hill, I climbed a second and held a hand over my brow to scour the landscape once more. Nothing, not for miles. Just off the northeast road on a fork sat a sparse thicket of forest and river. The river no doubt wound about Denerim and further north into mountain territory. As far as I could see, no movement sufficed from the edge of the woods.

"What are you doing out here?" a cheery, male voice called behind.

"Does it not bother you how open we are out here?" I bit back at him, aggravated that he could be so calm when we were so clearly threatened.

_Careful, pet, lest you bite off his head! _my mad spirit friend cackled. She had taken to elaborately insulting my oafish companion since last night, when she detected a mild change of heart regarding my attitude towards him. After all, I was not granted the comfort of private thought.

"Well, of course," Alistair turned, now more aware of our surrounding area as well. "But it's the fastest way to Denerim, plus I think we make a fairly intimidating band if anyone _does_ try and fight us!" he tried to assure me with a comical pose meant to impress by flexing his arms, but it only worried me more.

"Sten and Leliana have yet to return from scouting the forest to the northeast," I countered with concern edging my voice. Alistair, still unperturbed by my genuine concern, shrugged and moved beside me. Maker, his armor was gratingly loud and annoying. I hadn't enforced my companions to fully dress in the past months, but ever since the attack in the forest I wouldn't take that chance again. Every party member was to fully dress every morning, regardless of the weather. Alistair, shockingly, had yet to make a single complaint about the new rule. Perhaps he thought he could impress me with his poorly-crafted scaled armor and chipped old sword. I would have to buy him a new one once we arrived in the city.

"They will return," he assured me, "after all, it's only been a half-hour. Perhaps they found some useful herbs in the forest. You know how Leliana likes to collect flowers." He was so frustratingly lax about it, but after another scan of the empty road, I concluded that perhaps I was being too overcautious. Ever since leaving the forest the edge had not left my skin, and perhaps it was my own paranoia that I considered every twist of a leaf a threat.

_Oh stop being such a child, elf brat._

_You have grown soft and weak with kindness._

My seething companion continued spitting insults in my mind, but I did my best to drown her out. Eyes still wandering across the unmoving plane of forest, I sighed and slumped my shoulders.

"I suppose," I concluded. "Though we should make the best of this rendezvous for the time being," I furrowed my brow and looked at him with vindication. He frowned.

"What do you mean?" he sounded mildly concerned, though judging by the look in his eyes knew it involved something he would not want to do. I bared a half-cocked smile in his direction and sauntered past, my hand already grasping the staff at my back.

"You are growing lazy and I need a bit of practice," I responded cooly, now making my way over a far hill closer to the forest on the opposite side of the road.

"Istha- wait!" Alistair sounded torn as he looked back at the happy, relaxing camp some thirty paces back down the road, then reluctantly trotted after me. "What are we doing?" he asked once he caught up over another hill. He was slightly out of breath, the coddled fool. I should have made him wear his armor a lot sooner.

"As I said," I addressed him though kept my eyes trained on my new staff - a gift from a rambling tree spirit that had watched over the forest - and spun it once around in my hand to get a feeling for the weight. My hands flexed over the wood. I could almost sense the life within the staff. Mithra had spoken of a special type of tree that grew in the forest, and how only a Dalish smith could craft the living wood into a weapon. My weapon, it seems, had come straight from the source - or tree hands, rather - of the bark creature himself. Or itself.

"I need the practice lest we get ambushed again-" I picked up without pause, still turning my staff. "And you need to quit being so lazy," I finished. Alistair looked positively indignant at my insult, yet regardless still drew his sword as he spoke.

"I am not lazy!" he barked. I smiled, now confident in the shape of my staff, and looked up at him.

"Then prove it!" were my only words before I spun around in a tight, fast circle and arched the tip of my staff at his shield. A spark of white light bounced off the surface, nearly knocking him to the ground. He grunted and fell down to one knee before peering over the lip of his protective steel-and-wood barrier.

"W-What was _that_?!" he yelped in a shrill voice. "You didn't warn me!" I shot again, this time narrowly missing his head and instead met the flat of his blade. The spark bounced off and singed the ground instead. "Y-YOU! You could have killed me!" he shouted once he gathered himself again, now on his feet.

"Relax," I smiled, "it's only a mild new force magic I wanted to try." I shot again, and he successfully blocked this time, now circling about me in preparation.

"Mild?! You call _that_ mild?" he shook his head and directed his sword at the blackened grass. I grinned.

"Yes, I do," I stepped forward, and he tried to take another step away. "Alistair, quit letting me control the battle. You're a soldier, not a coward," I chastised him for moving on the defensive. He had a nasty habit of allowing his opposition to always take control of the field, and corner him against a tree or rock. If he was going to survive, I had to break him of that habit.

"Says you!" he threw back at me, now attempting to spar. I met him with my force magic, which built an invisible barrier around my body and staff similar to a magical force field, but instead bit back with every blow. He grunted and growled with every swing, and each time was nearly knocked back. "You're hardly one… to-" he grunted and shouted again, swinging his sword harder, still not coming close to penetrating my attack. I nearly threw him to the ground without even trying. "TALK!" he yelled, then stepped back to circle again. His footing was not receding anymore. "You hardly fight like a mage!" he countered my argument, now sweating profusely, face red, and shoulders hunched. Good, he was finally in a fighting stance.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" I laughed, goading him on, easily throwing back his swings with a twist of my hand. I grew bored and put more power into my swing, effectively knocking him back. I was a bit perplexed myself, for the magic I was putting into practice was fairly new. Though extensive on my knowledge of both entropy and spirit magic, this new form of force magic was brilliantly simple yet effective at controlling my enemy, which was the precise reason I sought to employ it. Tempted by my power, I raised my hand and brought it down, lifting Alistair up before he could stand, and dropped him face first again on the grass. He grunted.

"It means-" he grunted, pushing himself back to his feet without a single complaint and shrugging off the soreness in his body. "That how-" swing, miss, "am I-" swing, contact, miss, "supposed to fight-" swing, narrowly escape, nearly nicked, "like a soldier-" swing again, dodged, "when you rarely behave like a mage _should_!" I stopped then, lowering my weapon. He was out of breath, and I myself had gotten a bit winded ducking and dodging and fighting. It was thrilling to be this close-quarters in combat. I was so adjusted to moving from a distance, though weaving in and out of a battlefield was hardly new to me, I had to admit fighting so close I could feet the heat from his breath hissing in my face was exhilarating. Adrenaline pumped through my body like fire, my blood coursed in my veins.

"Is this not how a mage fights?" I laughed. He was not amused, but rather hysterical.

"No!" his voice broke from exhaustion. "Mages are not _supposed _to duck and run and weave like a wild cat in the woods. You are absolutely _exhausting_ to fight, Isthalla! Maker preserve me if I ever have to combat a mage that fights like you."

Though he didn't intend it as a compliment, and more so was just expressing his wild complaints over how unfair it was, I couldn't help but find myself brightened by his words. Truly, he could turn your spirits without ever intending to. How curious.

"Well then," I picked back up before he could catch onto my attitude. "I suppose you'll just have to find a way to be more clever than me in a fight, if I am your most formidable opponent," I boasted while returning my staff to the ready position.

"Maker's blood, I'll be _dead_ before then!" he groaned. Haplessly, he lifted his weapon and tried his best to shake off the stiffness overcoming his body. I knew the armor was heavy, and I knew how difficult it was to swing a sword and hold up a shield in this hot weather. But I needed him to be strong, and I needed to know he could protect not only himself but his charges should a time come that I could not fight. Regardless of what I thought, if it came down to a moment again where we were cornered as we once were in the tower, I refused to yield so willingly ever again. I had to know he could fight in my stead.

The more he swung against my impenetrable magic shield, the angrier he became. Even more so when I took the opportunity to shoot a bit of aggressive counter-spells his way to try and clip his shield whenever he stumbled back. He came at me again and again until I could hardly fend him off. I was growing terribly weak, and my magic was draining. I could not keep drawing on my endless well, for it would run dry and I would be defenseless, yet I thrived in the chaos of it. The breathless, violent fighting that set my teeth on edge and released the tension in my body like a well-coiled spring. It was a good way to get out my needless frustrations and sharp-edged anxiety that had throttled me earlier.

It was too late I realized I had no magic left to protect myself, and with a particularly furious shout Alistair's sword bared down upon me and I realized I had no shield left to deflect him. I narrowly managed to turn out of fatal distance, though the edge of the blade still struck my shoulder. With a shout and hiss I stumbled onto one knee and gripped a bleeding arm.

Alistair immediately dropped his weapons and kneeled at my side, horrified.

"Oh Maker, Isthalla I'm _so_ sorry!" he trembled. I rebuked him with a vicious shout, using my last bits of energy to shove him away with my magic. He seemed stunned for a moment, but scrambled right back to my side, though he did not touch me a second time.

I was not angry with him, but more so with myself. I knew my limits yet I had not heeded them, as always. I was furious that I had not paid more attention, had not worked harder to avoid the blade. My clumsiness would get me killed one day.

"Damn it," I hissed, quickly grabbing fistfuls of dirt to keep from bleeding too much. It was not a deep wound, but enough to drape my arm in ribbons of hot, red blood. It stung and the smell burned my nose with familiar clarity.

_Oh what a sweet, dreadful smell… _she purred. I tried to ignore the truth of her statement, and turned my attention to Alistair, who had taken over the duty of rubbing dirt over my bare arm.

"We'll have to get Wynne to take a look at this," he concluded once the blood began to clot. I hissed again when he tried to touch it, and jerked away.

"No," I responded immediately, my voice flat. "I refuse to let that windbag spout another sermon on my reckless behavior and incessant need to hurt myself. I do _not_ need her help."

"Morrig-"

"_No_." I ground out, angrier than before. Though he was unaware of our current dispute, I refused to let Morrigan know for a second that Alistair had bested me in a fight. I had no desire to talk to her, much less bring my incapability to her attention a second time. She would laugh in my face if I showed it to her.

Sensing our rivalry, he fell silent for a moment before catching my eyes, rather sheepish.

"I-I'm no healer, and certainly not a mage - but perhaps I could help? I know a thing or two about tending a cut," he tried. Oh, how pitiful he sounded in comparison to the throaty, hateful warrior I'd witnessed swinging at my backside moments ago. Strange how he could shift so easily between them. Not seeing much of a choice that didn't involve revealing my folly to anyone else in the party, I huffed an irritated sigh and slumped my shoulders.

"Fine, but Maker help you if you should muck it up," I snapped at him. He tried helping me to my feet, an insulting gesture I quickly shoved away despite how much my arm burned whenever I stood. It still hurt a terrible amount - perhaps he had cut deeper than I thought. After gathering our equipment, we set off across the plains to the river that cut through the outskirts of the forest. We arrived after a few minutes of silence on the fringe of the woods, and in my sudden clarity I realized I had still not seen Sten or Leliana return, and even now so close to the entrance I could not see nor hear either of our companions.

I sat down on a large, smooth rock at the edge of the river while Alistair fumbled through his pack for useful devices that could aid him in the valiant process of patching up my arm. He moved like a panicked child, as if my life were held by the thread of his competence. If that were truly the case, I would have surely been dead long before we reached the river. This, however, was nothing more than a scratch. A bleeding, annoying scratch.

While I preoccupied myself with scanning the forest, he had set up a miniature infirmary around my feet and began by rinsing the wound with clean, fresh water. I hissed and jumped when I felt his cold hands touch my arm.

"Sorry," he muttered, but I fell still when I realized what he was doing. Pausing, he looked up at me then back down. "Might want to roll up your sleeve," he nodded. I sighed, aggravated, and pulled up the already-wet cloth to expose my shoulder. Huh - more than a scratch. It cut perhaps an inch-deep, though it shouldn't affect my arm's function in the least. It was not my writing hand, anyway, and I certainly shouldn't need it for any strenuous activity any time soon.

"Wow, I cut deeper than I thought," Alistair voiced my thoughts with a slightly arrogant grin. I glowered at him, which quickly cut the smile in half as he returned to tending my wound.

Silence passed for a few minutes as he finished picking out the poorly-thought mud and rubble I had rubbed into the wound. It hurt a lot more than I expected, but I did not let him see me wince. Mages are not so accustomed to hard labor and flesh wounds, for the entire purpose of their method of fighting requires distance and evasion. To have a mage in hand-to-hand combat seemed as pointless as it was reckless. That didn't stop me from enjoying every minute of it, even if the cost was a cosmetic scar I did not care. I liked to feel the movement of the fight, and to sense the shortened, angry breath of my opponent.

It came to my attention that not only was Alistair so meticulously removing the potential threat of infection from my wound, but surprisingly skilled - painstakingly so. I had always assumed he was entirely incapable of himself, yet he moved with practiced hands to tend to a cut on my arm as a castle surgeon would. I watched him pull out a few small, wrapped squares of cloth, in which he revealed various herbs. He pulled the stem of one off with his teeth, and ground up another in his hand before rubbing it over my arm. It burned terribly, but I was too preoccupied by his sudden deftness to care.

"Where did you learn what type of herb to use?" I asked, completely perplexed. My voice must have come across in a condescending manner, for he shot me a slightly aggravated look before returning to his meticulous crafting of herbal medicine.

"As a child I was expected to mostly look after myself," he explained. "I spent a lot of time in the courtyard, and sometimes when the soldiers left for the day I would take up a sword and practice against the wooden targets." I clearly envisioned a child-Alistair in my mind, batting an oversized sword against the likes of a wooden enemy and could hardly retain a laugh. It was an amusing image.

"I didn't have a clue as to how I should handle a sword, much less swing one back then," he continued in a mildly amused and soft tone. I could hear the fondness in his voice for a memory he couldn't quite grasp, but longed for so desperately. I could certainly understand that feeling, I realized with a pang of resentment and surprise. I didn't like the idea of finding my feelings so similarly aligned to his own, but yet it didn't bother me as much as I thought it would. I let him continue nonetheless, with that childlike wonder in his eyes and silly smile on his face.

"It honestly surprises me that I never took a finger off, but I nicked myself enough on the blade. Always without meaning to," he shook his head. "Obviously if Eamon had even found out, he would have been furious. I took small pleasures where I could find them, and to a child that was my special moment, my secret I had all for myself."

"I see," I nodded, wanting to ensure him that I was listening despite my mute response thus far. He continued, unabashed, with eyes still carefully following his handiwork as he began bandaging up my wound.

"So I learned how to keep it a secret, and how to fix it," he shrugged. "Plus, you only want to let a cut get infected once. Nasty little sores can turn a bright day ugly," he added with a mild laugh. "All done," he announced before sitting back.

He was still exhausted, and still sweating profusely from his armor. I almost felt bad for pushing him so hard. Unable to push past my own pride to apologize, I pulled my legs up in that all-familiar fashion and crossed my arms over them, building walls between us. My eyes strayed over the glittering river, blindingly bright from the sun's reflection.

"It's been a long time," I said with no significance after a long, dragging silence passed. He could take my words however he wished. I was weary of the thought, and of how long our journey had already been, and continued to be. We still had such a painfully long way to go, and no end in sight. I feared the Blight would swallow Ferelden whole before we ever had the chance to stop it.

As if queued by my thoughts, Alistair chimed in with a dreadfully heavy question full of more thought than it implied.

"Do you suppose.. Duncan would be proud of us? Of where we are now?" he asked me uncertainly. With the sound of our leader's name came an old pain that struck me in the chest. Duncan was the only person who thought my life was worth saving, and found reason and hope in someone who refuted him every step of the way. I would never understand what he thought I could accomplish, or how he felt that leaving this entire mess in my hands was the right thing to do… but I wished more than ever now that I had taken his place. He would have stopped this already. Duncan would have known what to do.

I could have said all of this to Alistair and more, and revealed to him - truly - what I thought of Duncan, and why I was crying that day in the Wilds when he found me between the roots of the tree. But instead my attention was drawn to the sudden, sharp sound of hoof beats across the plains. They approached too rapidly to be just some traveler on the roads. My head whipped south towards the road, and I squinted hard against the glare of the river.

Just faintly across the river I made out the shape of our oncoming charge. On a galloping black steed rode a giant man in silver armor. My ears twitched as he rapidly closed in on us from the southern hills, riding in a haphazard pattern. As he drew closer, I realized he was not charging, but fleeing. Something about the pattern of his armor looked familiar, and it wasn't until he was within shouting distance that I realized who was riding towards us.

"That's Sten-" I muttered breathlessly, my heart now thrashing in my chest in anticipation for what could possibly cause a Qunari to retreat. I stood up and moved towards the river without answering Alistair, who now took this as insult - still completely unaware of the rider thundering towards us - and turned on me.

"Hey- wait a minute come back here! You can't just avoid answering like that," he proposed indignantly. I was jogging now, uncaring of whether I hurt the blasted man's feelings or not. I could nearly make out Sten's face now - he looked panicked. Not something I was accustomed to seeing in his features. Alistair's incessant shouting was drowned out as I broke into a sprint towards the approaching Qunari, and met him at the bank of the river. His horse was undoubtedly skittish about entering the rapidly-moving water, but drove forward anyway at the behest of Sten's impatient kicks.

"What's happened?" I demanded the instant he came to a stop. His eyes were wild, and his postured tense. His sword was drawn. I saw blood.

"Where's Leliana?" I immediately asked. He looked over his shoulder, and it was only then I became aware of the growing formation just fifty yards behind him, all on horseback.

"Bandits," he growled. "An organized ambush awaiting us on the north road."

"That bastard won't give up.." I growled under my breath, mind now seething with thoughts of how I could twist off Loghain's arrogant head.

Sten quickly became aware of our dispersed party and crumpled his brow. "Where are the others?"

I didn't have time to answer. An arrow narrowly whistled past Sten's ear - a galloping rider shortly behind. Sten gritted his teeth and hauled his own horse around, sword raised. "Go to the others - they have yet to see them."

I did not care that he had given me an order. He knew what to do regardless, and I understood that staying together as a group was more important than defending the ground we stood on. We were out in the open, defenseless, and I had no way of reaching them in time.

_Looks like you made a mistake again, little Isthalla…_

_You poor, foolish thing._

_Now they will all be slaughtered, because of you._

Her laughter rang in the back of my ear like poison. Snarling, I turned in time to see Alistair now skirting over the hill. He barely said a word before his eyes connected to the oncoming assailants Sten had now turned to try and deter away. He followed me back over the rise towards camp.

"What's going on?!" he asked.

"No time, we-" I paused as we stepped beside the fringe of the forest. A low, drawling moan echoed from the trees and drew a breeze underneath our feet. I could sense a mage buried within the depths of the dense trees. Old, powerful magic whispered around my feet. A snarl drew on my breath.

"Go, if you run now you might arrive in time to help," I pointed towards the road where Alistair should retreat. Instead, he planted both feet firmly beside me and drew his weapon in sheer defiance.

"No, you _cannot_ fight them on your own. You're injured," he countered. Of all the times he had to grow a pair of stones and go against my judgment, it was now. Furious, and with no time to argue or force him to, the trees seemingly surrounded us and out from the depths sprang the likes of a wilder people I had never seen. Tattered, leather-like fur barely strapped around their sun-scorched bodies. They were decorated by mud that obscured their features and had eyes like bottomless pits and sharpened teeth like wolves.

"Who are they?" Alistair stuttered out, slightly alarmed by the barbarians now circling around us. They looked nothing like the bandits I'd seen on horseback. Were we so unlucky to encounter two ambushes in one day? My skin prickled, my nerves set on edge, and hair rose on the back of my neck. I could sense a presence beyond my field of vision, taunting me from the darkness. Magic wound around my body like a snake, restricting me from counteracting.

"A-Alistair, move. N-Now!" I tried to warn him, but the words barely left my lips before a great rush of solid wind slammed into our chests and knocked us clean onto our backs. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. My staff was within a fingertip's reach, but whatever magic this mage employed left me defenseless. I could see their blackened mouths and eyes closing in, and for some strange reason connected a word in my mind that I never quite remembered learning, but I somehow knew belonged to their creature-esque kin that resembled my kind.

_Chasind._


	54. Poison and Wine

Of all the times I had vividly imagined my death, this was not remotely the scenario I had pictured. Paralyzed, helpless, I watched as their dark figures moved closer. It was as if the forest had swallowed up the sky - light shrouded by a shapeless dark that turned everything into shadows. I felt terrified, I felt like a lost child so suddenly and so violently I had no time to compensate my own emotions. Fear sickened my body like poison. This faceless monster in the shadows invoked more fear into my bones than any horrific nightmare I'd experienced in the past.

As my line of sight blurred I could see them approaching, with their wicked hands and black eyes hungry to devour us both. I could not scream out for help, I could not even will myself to move. Maker save me, this is where I would die. Pitiful, weak, and helpless. Lying here like a frightened child.

_He's here…_

Her voice was breathless, full of a fearful wonder I had never heard. I tried to will her to tell me, tried to speak - but it seemed even my mind was frozen in a state of shock. My skin burned. My body shook. My heart thrashed so wildly I feared it would break my ribs and tear through my chest.

_Please, not like this… please._

In the dark of the forest I saw a figure emerge. Flashing, dark eyes and a smile beckoned me. A fringe of light caught his bare arm - dark, sun-beaten skin marred by tribal patterns that snaked up his arm. My body shifted in a sudden, revolting familiarity that sickened me to the point of physical nausea. My vision tremored and blurred out of focus. He was lifting me to my feet. I could feel the air being squeezed from my lungs, the life sucked from my body. I grew cold, empty. Frightened.

I felt no hate towards him, no unabashed revenge that I knew he deserved. Instead, foreign pain entered my chest as his face began to shape from the darkness. Ashen markings covered his jaw, and I could see where ash-and-mud covered fingers had so carefully touched his face. Four fingers across his mouth, a hand across his eyes, and two fingers to each side of his temple. His gaze gave the illusion of an empty pit, barely distinguished by the whites of his eyes. He smiled at me, and I felt my heart thunder in my throat even though he was trying to kill me.

_I know you…_

In a flash of movement, our connection broke when the sound of foreign voices entered. Light bloomed around me, and somehow the forest that had seemed so far away before came crashing back in a rush of sound and movement. My floating body hit the dirt with a solid _thunk_. A horse shrieked and thundered just past my head. Disoriented, I crawled to my feet and witnessed a flurry of bodies, both friend and foe, twisting around the new battlefield in a crescendo of sharp metal _tangs_ and shouts.

A hand grabbed me before I was ready, and I nearly took his head off before I connected my gaze to Zevran's. He looked startled, and only took a moment to make sure I was awake before turning to stab one of the aggressors in the eye socket. I could not discern who was attacking, only a flurry of various bodies thrown against one another, punctuated by the sound of screaming horses. Sten must have returned. How did the others get here so fast?

My muddied thoughts instantly snapped back to the mage in the forest. I could hear his whisper above the roar of the fighting, no more than a murmur against the shell of my ear. Like a dream, he beckoned me forward. I felt powerless to disobey him, and took off into the forest against my better judgment, and against the alarmed shout from Zevran. I had to find him.

Like before, the forest closed in around me as if it were alive. Darkness turned my path into a fatal trap with every new step I made into unfamiliar underbrush. I did not stop running, and forced myself further despite the painful snags from the branches. I could hear a muddied voice calling behind me, but ignored their pleas. My spirit companion had fallen silent in wake of our similar urgency to find this mysterious man.

I could see his cloak tauntingly within my grasp. Never his face. Only a fringe smile or hand. I turned a corner and he was gone, leaving an opening in the forest where a weak glow of light pierced the canopy. He materialized like smoke in the center of the expanse, facing me. I stopped in my tracks and waited, my heart pounding and hands shaking. I was swelling with unfamiliar emotion, my entire body desperately pulling towards the hooded figure.

Behind me I could not discern the direction I had come from. No light other than the thin thread basking my cloaked assailant filled the forest. I had no idea what direction I'd entered from, or how to get back. I could not hear the roar of battle, not even a faint echo. The forest was silent as well.

When I looked back he was gone again, and the frantic need to keep him within my sights lit my chest in panic. A barely-there whisper escaped my lips, begging him to wait. I stumbled forward and ran blindly, desperate to find him. I ran until I couldn't breathe, and until my legs ached with exhaustion. I collapsed with a frustrated cry on a narrow game trail cutting through the trees, my arms shaking and sweat coating my body. I lifted my hands and looked at them, horrified to see blood pouring from my old scars - now as fresh as the day I cut them.

_Isthalla…_

My head whipped in the direction of the sound, and within ten feet stood the same hooded man, materialized from shadow. My hands shook, my vision blurred. He stood over me now, his hand raised above my head and a smile on his face. I did not feel threatened, yet I knew he intended to kill me. I sat, frozen in my wonder, as he reached out to touch my forehead.

An arrow interrupted our connection, narrowly missing his arm. He retracted his hand and hissed in the direction of the intruders, obscuring his features once more from me. He thrust his cloak around his shoulders and melted into the dark as a shadow. I reached out for him, but he turned to smoke before I could grasp his hand.

Furious for their interruption, I turned my wild eyes on the assailants - faceless bandits that had wandered into the forest after me. Rage consumed me like I'd never known. Hate boiled in my veins that they would destroy our moment, that precious connection my entire body ached for, so badly that I wanted to rip them to pieces. I knew him, somehow, I knew the cloaked man. I had to.

_They stole him from us…_

She reminded me of what the bastards had done. How dare they.

I didn't grant them the courtesy of my presence. The last and only thing the two bandits would remember were my blood-throttled eyes that burned with the inferno of their destruction. Raising my still-bleeding hands, I lifted them both into the air and tore their bodies limb from limb. They screamed like mad lambs, bled like stuck pigs.

They had stumbled so close one nearly tripped over me in pursuit, and in their unexpected death they had essentially burst upon contact as if I'd squeezed a ripe fruit. Blood sprayed across my face and body. It heated my bones like ember. I smiled, lifted their corpses, and twisted them in mid-air again until a pool of blood had formed at my feet and they hardly resembled anything human. I dropped their bodies as a carcass of flesh and bone on the ground, grotesquely mashed together in a faceless pile of what was once two unfortunate souls.

A third, perhaps a straggler, only just arrived on the scene after I'd dropped their corpses at my feet, invisible under tangles of underbrush. To his eyes I was nothing more than a injured, feeble elf lost in the forest, trapped helplessly on an empty trail. Perhaps fleeing.

"You there!" he shouted, starting towards me in a valiant pursuit. I did not turn. I did not run. Fury still boiled in my veins, and power thrilled my movement. He had barely come within grasping distance before I twisted my hand around and sliced his body into pieces with only a few, swift gestures. Hot blood soaked my feet, my face, my arms. It burned my skin like fire. I shuddered and felt the darkness recede. The forest was no longer quiet, no longer void of light as I had thought. Though my cloaked assailant was long gone, his presence remained. Sound filtered back in as I heard the faint hum of water in the distance, and ever closer the concerned calls of my companions.

I did not have time to compensate or cover up my actions. I stood there, dripping with blood, reeking of death, when Alistair and Sten appeared from behind the trees. Alistair, assuming the worst, bolted forward only to catch a snag in the underbrush and toppled face-first into the bushes. Sten was more aware of his surroundings, and picked his way carefully but quickly to the game trail and reached me first.

"Isthalla are y-" he paused, for the first time at a loss for words out of sheer confusion and alarm, as he took in my appearance. He looked at the mangled bodies at my feet, and crumpled his face. "Isthalla," he repeated, unperturbed. "Are you all right?" he asked me. He did not mean to imply if I was physically okay - he knew I was unscathed. My assailants were not so lucky. I had only just returned from whatever dark realm I'd lost myself in, and found it hard to discern the words spoken from so many mouths. Too much talking. Too many people.

_Isthalla_

_Answer Me_

_Isthalla, my love.._

My vision blurred again as I turned and found myself staring at Wynne. She was touching my face, and said something indiscernible to the others. Above the noise of muffled conversation I sensed something once more. Blood. Not mine, not the attackers. Someone else. Something else.

I pushed past the others after only realizing Morrigan was not amongst them. I knew that smell. I broke into a run before Sten could stop me, further into the forest to the other side. I weaved my way through the trees, jumping over obstacles, climbing my way through the bramble until I broke into a small clearing where Morrigan crouched over the body of her beloved wolf Luther. She was crying.

"Morrigan.." I whispered. She did not look up, intent on not letting me see her cry. She was still angry with me. For the moment, however, her grief of losing Luther was enough to keep her from abandoning his side in favor of chasing me away.

I could see Luther had been badly wounded. Blood poured from his side where a sword or arrows had undoubtedly pierced him. Morrigan tried to hold back her tears, but only broke further into a sob when Luther let out a pitiful whine. I knelt at her side and rested a shaking hand on his shuddering body. With the sight of our beloved wolf dying on the forest floor, my mind cleared. I sobered with realization, and shortly afterward grief. He felt cold, and his fur was matted with blood.

"He was only protecting me," Morrigan murmured. "I've never seen him so injured before - there were too many of them." I knew she spoke of the ambush. I had not been there. Guilt swelled in my chest. Morrigan glanced at me and suddenly stiffened in shock, her eyes wide.

"I-Isthalla," she whimpered, now aware of the blood coating my body. I reeked of it. It was already starting to tighten on my skin. I avoided her gaze and stared at Luther. He wouldn't survive, not with the best healing magic Wynne could offer. Morrigan knew.

"Morrigan, I'm so sorr-"

"_Don't_-" she spat, now recalling her reason for hostility towards me. "You've already done a _fantastic_ job of disappearing when we need you the most, so why don't you make use of yourself and _not come back_ next time?!" her anger, though quiet, pierced me with cold singularity. I knew she meant it. Looking at Luther, I saw him as our last thread of validity for friendship. He had been the blossom of our bond, and together we had helped nurse him back to health and care for him, though he had undoubtedly become Morrigan's in the end.

I never considered how much Morrigan cared about her wolf until I saw how she clung to him in camp the night of our return in the Brecilian Forest. Where I had become the absent abandonment, she had turned to her only source of comfort, Luther. And now I had robbed her again of something she cared about.

Ignoring her angry protests and questions of what I was doing, I reached down and touched my bare, bloodied hands to his wounds. Blood drew up around me in a swirl of glowing red. Morrigan, perplexed and frightened, fell back on the seat of her robes and stared as she watched me perform the dark ritual. In truth, I wasn't sure what I was doing. I followed my instincts, allowing the heat to exit my body and flow into Luther. If blood magic could control and take from another, then there was a way to take the pain away. There had to be.

Fire coursed through my veins, but I pushed on until I could hardly stand it. I could hear the others within shouting distance now. I had to hurry. If Wynne saw-

Old wounds began to tear open along my arms and hands. Morrigan, compelled by sudden alarm and aroused concern, tried to stop me. I used one hand to toss her back and keep her seated. Luther whined under my touch, but I did my best to soothe the beast and assure him he would be okay. As the spell reached it crescendo, the light drew away from the surrounding area Luther and I inhabited. The sky grew dark again, and the trees pressed in around me. A great pressure drew from the ground and threatened to pull me beneath. I could hear their whispers.

_Blood in the wound_

_Taste of flesh, so sweet_

_Black and blue, red and crimson…_

_Give us your heart_

_GIVE IT TO US!_

Then, with a gasp and white, searing pain through my body, the wounds sealed on Luther and I fell back just as Zevran burst through the trees. My head was still swimming when he stepped into the forbidden circle where Morrigan, Luther and I sat. The ground was still shaking beneath me, the voices still taunting me. My spirit companion offered no idle consolation. She was silent.

Numbed by my experience, drained of my magic, I sat in perpetual silence despite Zevran knelt in front of me, shaking me in attempts to bring me back. I only wanted to rest, just for a little while. Let them worry, I didn't care. After all, it was my fault it had happened. Perhaps I should have died.

Perhaps I still should.

_Who will save you now, my lost child?_

_Hands unclean, blood you can never wash away_

_You have given them invitation_

Her dire warning did not console me, and nor did it stir me from my seat. Zevran stopped shaking me once he realized I was more than aware of myself. I felt cold, distant. Empty. I could still hear their voices scratching at the back of my mind, desperate to crawl into the confines of my body. I looked up into my fearless assassin's eyes and found fear - deep, rooted fear that realized he was not looking at his leader, nor his elven lover. I stared back with the empty void of a monster's gaze, unfeeling. Untouchable.

Still coursing with a fire that seared my bones, I stood to my feet and slowly walked back towards the road, suddenly intent to put as much distance between myself and that cursed forest. He remained there, even in spirit, but enough to keep my skin crawling and heart thundering in my throat. The cloaked man that felt so terribly familiar. I could hear his voice on my throat, his whispers snaking through my mind as I repeated the singular word he'd spoken. Like poison. Like sweet wine.

_Isthalla…_


	55. Red

_Blessed are they who stand before_

_The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._

_Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

The tower was silent. Aside from the occasional shift of metal from the guards left to shadow the hallways, nothing else stirred. No laughter, no pattering of young mageling feet as I was once accustomed to. Once again, this place had become a shell of death. In the highest corners of each floor, blood and flesh still pulsed as a containing reminder of the tragedy. Of my mistake.

_ I should have followed my judgment._

I knew this song, I knew what it had entailed - yet against every alarm in my body I had heeded the elf's demand. _Her_ demands. Spoken through the fiery lips of her halfbreed monstrosity of a child. Perhaps she had saved a few, yes, but at the risk of another incident. It was only a matter of time.

I knew why she'd done it, not for this tower, and nor for its mages. She never gave a damn about them, and it was only a blatant lie to pretend her causes were just, that they were not as selfish as mine had been all those years ago.

I had not spent all my years training to turn a blind eye to what was right in front of me, and from the day he laid eyes on her I knew that he would protect her with his life, as foolish as it was. He was reckless and a gamble at that, but one of the finest and most dedicated templars I had ever trained. In service of his Maker, he had sacrificed his mind and body to protect the others. Even though no others had survived, through it he had proven an indomitable resilience I could not ignore - no matter how flawed his moral perceptions were. After all, I had once been in a painfully similar situation. _She _had been _my_ savior and destroyer.

_ Kaidasa.._

My heart grew heavy and head throbbed with memory. Ill thoughts conceive ill emotions. I no longer had the naivety to entertain the idea of her or anything pertaining to that dark time. With the tower in shambles and most of if not all of my charges gone, perhaps this had been a necessary evil to finally make him understand the dangers of trusting a mage. If this was the only way to learn, then so be it. Perhaps this was a reminder to myself that what I had done was justified, that this was the right path. The only path. The annulment was in the tower's best interest, despite my yielding to petty concerns of Wynne and the others. No longer was the case, and now all I could do was grit my teeth and pull my men back together.

In the shadow of twilight, the halls were nearly impenetrable. With no charges left to watch, guards were not needed aside from the first floor. The rest were sent to their quarters for the remainder of every night. I strolled down the hallway, a torch in one hand to light my way. My hollow steps echoed down the winding distance, playing across the stone walls with ominous intent.

I had intended to run a quick route through the upper levels, though I knew it was not necessary. The mages remaining were too old and too wearied by the recent events to bother ignoring protocol. The few remaining apprentices were too scared to leave their dorms at night now, and huddled within the safety of the first floor like frightened sheep.

As I rounded the corner, I noticed the door to the chantry stood ajar, and a light flickered within. Cautious, I placed my torch within an iron sconce on the wall and stepped inside. The door creaked in the slightest, but not enough to alert whatever person or persons had snuck inside at such a late hour. I could see a candle flickering at the other end of the chapel, and a figure crouched in the dark. Hiding, maybe.

I heavied my stride as the guilty party came within my sights. Once I was within a dozen paces of the man, I recognized the dull shine from the surface of his armor that reflected distorted candlelight. Across his back slung the emblem of our purpose, a flaming sword etched into the shield. I could see visible red hair tucked between clasped hands as he continued his fervent, but steady prayer.

_These truths the Maker has revealed to me:  
As there is but one world,  
One life, one death, there is  
But one god, and He is our Maker.  
They are sinners, who have given their love  
To false gods._

Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him.  
Foul and corrupt are they  
Who have taken His gift  
And turned it against His children.  
They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones.  
They shall find no rest in this world  
Or beyond.

I could not hear fear in his voice, nor a flicker of surprise as he stood to his feet and turned to me with hooded eyes once he had finished his prayer.

"Commander," he addressed me with an empty nod. Still a bit surprised, I gathered myself and took a slow breath.

"I thought I heard mages in here," I commented with a wry look in either direction. It was not beneath him to cover up a mage's treachery in the past, and his appearances would not deceive me. I still felt skepticism that he should escape Uldred with nothing more than a wounded ego. He appeared sharpened by my accusation, and tilted his head further, tightening his features.

"All mages have been secured to their quarters for the night, ser. I shall check again before returning to the templar's dormitory," he retorted, completely unabashed. Not wanting to lose face, I raised my head and paused as I took in his features. His eyes were deadened. Fear, it seemed, had finally escaped him. Good.

"Be certain you do not arrive late for your morning duties, then," I nodded. "I won't have you shirking your new position so soon after awarding it, Cullen." A long pause followed my words, and second after he snapped into a straighter position and bowed with one arm crossed over his chest.

"I shall not falter, Commander," he exposed his neck to me, then raised up again. "That you have my word on." With that, he turned and strode into the darkness.

My attention drifted back to the candle - or candles, rather - that had been lit and burned so many times at the alter that wax melted and hardened enough to create formations over the surface. I wet my index and thumb and put out the new candle that had been lit, then paused as my eyes scanned the tainted surface of the book open on the pedestal. Blood stained its surface. Most likely that of a mage's. Many of the books had been tainted by the attack. It was only cosmetic damage, but it stared out of the smoky darkness like an old wound. Bright and red.


	56. Love Endured

Three long months had passed since I saw her face. Angry, bitter, and mad were my memories of that time, and quickly overshadowed any happy recollection I had once claimed. My nights were plagued with the ghost screams of those I had failed to protect, and had been lost to the abominations' grasp. I did not sleep that first month. Once my mind established a refusal for peace, I decidedly spent my evenings in the chantry begging forgiveness.

This had been my mistake, my fault. If I had paid more attention, and done my duty as was asked, I might have prevented this tragedy. Instead, I was blinded by naivety of my own selfish desires, and had ignored the problem standing right in front of us all. Uldred. A terror that my kind would not soon forget.

The bodies had grown so numerous that many had to either be burned on the outer grounds or thrown into the lake. After so many mangled corpses washed back up on shore, the commander had the mind to order the rest to be buried in a craterous hole and never to be spoken of again. My stomach riled with sickness on that day as I watched my fellow knights, silent and solemn, throwing their comrades into the pit along with every other faceless body to be forgotten. My blood boiled and heart withered with their absence.

Maker preserve us.

_ Captain_ echoed dully off the lips of my charges, an empty greeting that was never meant to be celebrated. I had taken the place of my former, Weston, who had been the right-hand to the Commander for many, long years before my arrival. It set like stone into my heart as I was reminded over and over that I had been the one to let him die. That I had not saved them all.

My body beaten, and mind razed by nightmares and crippling guilt that haunted my every step, it would be three months before I remembered what it felt like to sleep for more than a few hours. And three months it would be before I saw her beloved face again.

I had abandoned my hope (and in truth, my desire) of seeing that thing which had been my undoing. A forbidden affection that went well-beyond the jurisdiction of templar-mage relationships. I had been a fool, a weak and powerless fool to believe in any future with her. It was a child's fantasy, and one I would never again let take a hold of my mind so fiercely that it should ever disable me again. I couldn't let it happen again.

I burned this into my mind until I could think none other, yet on that day, the three-month marker since the tower's fall, I felt my heart burn as it once did when I saw her appear at the front gates. I had been stationed to greet a party expected to pass through on the way to the mountains. I had not been given a name, only that it was for official business directed for First Enchanter Irving's discretion. Now I understood why Greagoir had been so upset all afternoon.

She spotted me with her fire-amber eyes, and I confoundedly stuck to my spot like a bewildered child. Before I could prepare myself for a reintroduction to a long-lost memory, she had leapt into my chest and wrapped thin, ivory arms around my bare neck. Though I was dressed in full armor, I could feel the heat of her body and thrumming heart in her chest.

My mind did not reject it. I could not. Weakness filtered into my bones once more, trickling into the caverns of my chest and arms until I felt I would burn into ash. I wrapped my arms around her without thinking, and cracked my lips into a foreign expression I had long since forgotten. She smelled of wood and grass, of sweet spice and summer wind. My beloved mage, my sweet, fiery Isthalla.

Our reunion was broken up by the awkward cough of her companions, who I had only just found myself aware of again. The haze cleared, and I almost protested as she slipped away and settled back into her posture. I became distinctly aware of her short hair and draping neckline. My ears burned, though I remained steadfast when I spoke.

"You've cut your hair," I noted, unable to keep the tune of affection out of my voice. I tried to bury the smile that tugged on my mouth, as did she. Maker's breath, she looked more beautiful than I ever remembered.

"Sorry to interrupt-" her mage companion butted in. "We've come to see First Enchanter Irving, so if you would?" I could tell by the bite in her tone that she knew about our history, and undoubtedly had been a source of confidence for Isthalla. I felt a lump of slight shame fill my throat when I remembered our last encounter, one of which I hardly liked to recall. It was a bitter and dark memory, and I had been unforgivable to her.

My second, Alden, tried to step forward and involve himself in the conversation. Before I could forget myself, I held up my hand to steady my two charges and directed my attention to the irritated woman to my left. My eyes regrettably moved from Isthalla.

"Irving is indisposed at the moment with another matter involving the Commander," I glanced at her other companions. I could see Wynne standing off to the side, now engrossed in a conversation with one of the remaining senior enchanters still at the Circle. My eyes flickered back to the party as a whole. "Though he has sent me to wish you welcome to the Circle, and has offered that you take up rest for the afternoon in our guest quarters." I kept glancing over at Isthalla. Her eyes burned into me and smiling mouth made my heart pace.

"On a personal effect, there's a mess hall to your left through the archway if you'd like a hot meal. Our chef doesn't really know how to cook in small portions," I smiled in the slightest, which must have alarmed Alden a bit considering my dour mood the past week. Straightening, I removed my grin and cleared my throat.

"Ever since the attack, most of the apprentices have been sent to other towers while repairs are made," I explained, my attention shifting again to Isthalla. I doubt they had sent any news to her regarding the tower's occupants. By the attentive, imploring look on her face - they had not. "Those remaining help rebuild. Still, it's not enough to warrant the meals that Bastian cooks up-"

"Bastian's still here?" Isthalla piped up. I turned to her, my heart jumping in that old-familiar way, and tried to hide my enthusiasm at answering her question. Maker, I felt like a schoolboy in her presence.

"It seems a few abominations can't take the old man out," I commented with a slight tone of amusement. She smiled.

"I'm glad to hear."

"Nevertheless-" her female companion cut in again. I nodded.

"Irving insists that you spend the afternoon at your leisure, and will speak with your leader-" I paused, looking at Isthalla and finding the word quite strange to accompany to her, "later this evening." I softened. "If that's all right with you?"

"Perfectly fine," she breathed.

"Right, well I'm going to make myself scarce in that case," the other woman sighed while sauntering off. Two of her other companions silently followed - a tall, grey creature and a red-headed woman who began chattering on to the man. He didn't seem terribly interested in her conversation, but endured it nonetheless.

I recognized one of her companions from before, a man bearing Redcliffe's emblem on his shield. One of Duncan's recruits, if I recall correctly. He looked a bit confused for a moment before jutting a thumb towards the hall.

"Mess hall?" he asked. I nodded to Alden, who stepped away to accompany the man.

"I'm just about ready to eat my own boots, so I think I'll join ya, as long as there's ale to be had," a rather curious looking dwarf materialized from behind Isthalla and stumbled after the Grey Warden. A peculiar sight. That left Isthalla and one other companion I hadn't noticed before - a sharp-eyed elf that had previously been enveloped by shadows.

"I suppose I shall absent myself as well, if that so pleases you, my Warden?" he eyed me with the hostility of a feral dog, his hand touching her shoulder. She looked uncomfortable, and even stiffened in the slightest as she addressed him with a silent nod. His eyes switched back to me.

"Would it be too much to ask that you perhaps still have a library to peruse?" his voice was cold and viperous, an unwarranted exchange I still had not entirely grasped, though already began to take shape the longer I recognized the patterns of body language between them. I swallowed the jealous lump in my throat and nodded to the space over my shoulder, lips tightened.

"Take the staircase to the floor above, and through the second archway," I had hardly given directions before he slipped past me, just barely missing my shoulder with his own. Still a bit rattled, my attention was caught off guard when I felt her hand grab my arm and pull me in the slightest. I turned to look at her, my heart weakened by the imploring, soft look in her eyes.

"Would you like to take a walk with me?" she asked me in a way that implied she had never left, and that the tower attack had been nothing more than a dream. I stood in the sunlit hallway again, as all those months past. I wanted nothing more than to walk as we once had that time ago that felt now like a dream. Instead, I felt duty grasp the back of my neck and pull me away. With the weight of stone preventing my body, I forced the words from my mouth.

"I'm sorry, Isthalla," my tongue felt heavy and thick as I spoke, "I must attend to my duties." She looked absolutely crestfallen as her hand pulled away and tucked back into her chest.

"Oh," she breathed, her eyes flickered to the floor. My heart thundered in my chest and hands shook. I couldn't take it. Glancing once about me to ensure the remaining men had vacated the foyer, I turned Isthalla toward me before she could walk away and put my hands on her shoulders.

"Later, I promise.." I added under my breath, though I wasn't really sure what I implied. I didn't want to think about it. My heart was pounding and body electric within proximity of her own. Her eyes lit up with my assurance, and ears lifted from their position as she smiled at me. It was such a far cry from the last memory I had of her. She had been so angry with me, so wounded by my indifference. My posture weakened.

"Isthalla, I'm _so _sorry-" I began to apologize for my actions during the tower attack. I should have never said what I did to her. She didn't deserve to be treated that way. Before I could speak further, the flat of her fingers rested against my lips. She had never touched my face, not intentionally. I wanted to melt under her touch, shudder in an embrace my body had longed for since the day we met. Instead, I forced my gloved hand to remove her fingers, though grasped in my own. She didn't need to say anything, her expression was enough to know she had forgiven me - though I knew I would never deserve it.

"_Maker_, I missed you," I trembled. Three months could not deter my affections, and could not erase the ache in my heart to see her adored smile. Never had my love diminished, only waited with bated breath for the time that I might see her again, touch her skin, or smell the fragrance of her hair.

Hardly could I contain my restraint to reach out and pull her to me once more, and recall that rare and fleeting sensation of having her wrapped in my arms. Those memories were so few I could hardly count, though they remained in pristine condition to that which I held dearest in my mind. She was the brightest memory I had, the fondest that I could recall in the dark plane of my history. I basked in the warmth of her presence and sharp wit of conversation. Here, she was as real to me as ever. I wanted to tell her this and so much more, but I knew now that I could not.

Instead, I could only say those timid words of friendly absence: _I missed you. _Nothing more, and nothing less. Though in my heart I hoped she understood the weight of my words, a part of me endured the idea she might have never felt the same way. And that my misplaced affection was simply an echo to a false fantasy I had conjured. Even so, I could revel in the idea that it might have been. Could have.

"Meet me in the library tonight," she spoke. My expression shifted to surprise, and heart still thundered. I crumpled my brow in confusion.

"Do you plan on staying so long?"

"If your Commander does not mind," she commented. My heart fell. I had not considered the idea that Greagoir would be eager to be rid of Isthalla as quickly as possible. He was not very fond of her, after all, and two visits within three months might push his temper.

"I would have you stay for the entire night, if it were up to me," I sighed. My words apparently had implied more to her, for she squinted and smirked at me in a manner that suggested more than it should.

"And why would you want that, Cullen?" she snidely asked. My ears turned bright red in embarrassment as I caught up with my own suggestion.

"M-Maker, I'm sorry!" I rushed to corrected myself. "I wasn't- I mean to say, I wasn't implying that at _all_-"

"It's all right, I know what you meant," she chuckled at my behest, though her teasing was mild. It seems the outdoors had calmed her to a drastic extent; more than I had considered. Either that or for another reason entirely that I cared not to linger on. My heart fell again.

"I won't have you and your party leave without some form of provision and rest, though we don't have much to spare, you were and are still a mage of the tower," I picked myself back up and felt my heart receding. It was time to grow up; I couldn't keep indulging in a fantasy that did not exist. No matter how much I wanted it.

"You're more than welcome to stay overnight, if you should choose," I nodded to her. She looked up towards the heavens in contemplation for a moment, twisting up her features in a mocking manner, then nodded profusely.

"Yes, I think I will," she said in a overconfident voice, then smiled and laughed. "Sounds just fine to me, Cullen." I felt myself physically weaken at the sound of her laughter. A rare and precious sound. Clearing my throat, I turned just in time to see Wynne re-emerge from the entrance hall with an important look on her face.

"I see you have both re-acquainted yourselves," she said in a light, yet chiding tone as her eyes followed between us. She turned to her tiny, fiery leader with a respectful nod. Something I'd never expected to see in my life. "Isthalla, I've just spoke with Ellen about the tower - I might just have to remain after all. It seems they are one short a proper enchanter for the third floor."

"Did Irving request for you to return?" I interjected. She turned to me with a slow, empty smile.

"He did, as I'm sure you are aware that the Circle is quite short on helping hands. I've already spoken to Isthalla about returning to provide my assistance. There are still apprentices that need teaching, after all," she said with a self-assured nod.

"Greagoir would never admit that we need as much help as we can find," I agreed.

"It seems so," she grinned, then glanced back to Isthalla. "I shall leave you to it, then." With a strange look in my direction, Wynne strode away towards the staircase, once again leaving me with Isthalla.

"Uhm, well I suppose you should return to those… duties," she re-emerged from the conversation with a slightly awkward tilt of her head. I could feel the back of my neck burning as I ran a hand across it, silently scolding myself for ever saying it in the first place.

"Y-Yes, well-" I found myself tongue-tied and unable to conjure a more respectable statement. I thought I had kicked my damn habit of stuttering. She brought out the worst of it in me.

"If you're quite done with all those templar duties, take a walk by the library tonight," she winked and stepped past me, one hand brushing my armor. My skin burned to feel her touch. I shuddered in the slightest, and shut my eyes to quell my heart. "I'd prefer to talk to you when I don't feel like there are eyes boring into the back of my head," she added in a murmur. Her eyes fell to the ground, and for a moment I thought I saw grief tender her eyes. She furrowed her brow, hand still on my armor, and whispered into space between my arm.

"I missed you, too… Cullen."


	57. Witch Mother

_ Stupid templar._

Though I was rife with hunger, I could barely touch the food on my plate. My mind burned with the image of her in his arms like a cruel joke. The food I had eaten was forced down my throat, and despite how wonderful it was to have a hot meal after so many days eating stale bread and dried meats on the road, I couldn't enjoy it. I was grouchy and irritable and everyone around me knew it.

"Why the sour face, pretty boy?" Oghren grunted at me across the table, mead still dribbling down his beard. I raised my brow and cleared my throat while making a suggested motion with my hand.

"Uh, you got a little-" I tried telling him. He drank another big swig, splashing more onto his face, then followed by a loud belch. I winced and heaved a sigh. "Nevermind," I shook my head.

"Still sore-assed about seeing your lady-friend cozying up to that templar fella?" he chuckled. I turned a bright shade of red and went rigid in my seat. Leliana and the others were within distance of us at the long table to hear every word. I saw a peculiar perk of interest from Morrigan, which amounted to nothing more than a slow raise of her brow and disapproving frown. I knew better.

"Shut it, would you?" I hissed under my breath. "_Maker_, you don't know what tact means, do you?" I muttered. He topped off his mead, then slapped the empty mug down on the table. The massacred food on his plate jumped from impact.

"And neither do you, nug-humper," he laughed. "I've seen your so-called _tact_ - and it ain't amounted to nothin' more than blunderin' about until you fall on your ass or stick your foot right in your mouth." He let out a hearty laugh at his own insult, stinging me in the process. I frumped in my seat and glared at him.

"I can see now why Orzammar was happy to be rid of you," I snapped. Undeterred, he leaned back in his seat and grunted again with a wide smile.

"There ain't nothin' you can say that gets under my skin, twinkle-toes, since I'm not the one with the lady problems," he drummed his fingers on his stomach, just daring me to try and combat him. He certainly was a cheeky dwarf, wasn't he?

"What's this I hear about problem with women?" a soft, Orlesian voice countered. I felt Leliana warm right next to me in the seat, wrapping delicate fingers around my arm. Morrigan stood over her, hands on hips, and across Sten had followed - though he seemed far less interested in the so-called problems I was dealing with. They pressed in around me, picking and questioning like a bunch of old women fussing over a child.

"Absolutely nothing!" I finally shouted and abruptly stood to my feet. I couldn't stand it anymore. It was hard enough dealing with it without the added pressure of a bunch of cackling hens squawking in my ear. Flustered, humiliated - I stalked out of the mess hall towards the staircase. The sun was setting now, and played dark shadows across the stone walls. Under the veil of the stairs' entrance, I reached down into my satchel and carefully pulled out the item I had so tediously looked after.

A rose, as beautiful as the day I had picked it, still bloomed with velvet-red petals from a rich green stem. I wouldn't have believed it had I not witnessed it myself - but I had found the flower amongst the wreckage of Lothering all those months ago. It had bloomed from the ashes somehow, and like a beacon I'd found it nestled between the debris. It was more than just a flower, it was a symbol of hope, knowing that something so beautiful could still prosper in such a horrible place.

I had wanted to give it to her. I'd beaten myself up for weeks contemplating it, trying to talk myself out of it. The more I thought about it, the more ridiculous a notion it became. Isthalla was as hard as stone, or so I once thought. There were times when I saw her for who she really was - or at least, use to be - hidden beneath the shadow of a terrible history. Just like the rose, she was prickly on the outside, yet somehow underneath that demeanor I knew she was beautiful. That night on the hill, she'd been so open with me. I'd never seen her like that before. I knew then that I had to give her the rose, even if she rejected it. It was for her. It always had been.

Jealousy riled in me as I replayed the image in my mind. My heart had fallen, because in that moment I realized what I could never be. All of the wishful thinking in the world couldn't surpass the smile _he_ so selfishly procured from Isthalla. It sickened my stomach knowing how easily she folded over for him, or how quickly she forgave him. He'd yelled at her, called her a monster, and yet it only took a glance for her to fall over herself just to see him again. I was never granted that forgiveness, and for whatever reason every little mistake I made she reminded me of any chance she got. I was not allowed to forget my mistakes. And he was forgiven regardless.

That _damned_ templar.

My hand crushed over the rose before I could think about it. I squeezed the torn petals into my palm until my nails embedded into my skin. A ragged breath escaped my lips as I released the flower, and let the remains fall on the ground. It lay mangled and distorted across the cold stone steps. Never again. He could have her for all I cared. Why did I even bother to try?

I had lingered far too long over the corpse of my flower. Morrigan had caught up with me before I could think better and escape, and halfway up the stairs she stopped at the bottom and stooped down to pick up the crushed remnants.

"Alistair?" she called. I paused, hands clenched at my side, then continued climbing. My footsteps were gratingly loud. She knew it was me. "Alistair, I can hear you-" she voiced my thoughts quite irritably. I still continued to climb. I heard frantic, hurried footsteps as she followed after me and met at the threshold to the second floor. "Alistair, wait-"

"What do you want?" I turned on her. Obviously I had spoken more harshly than she was accustomed to, for she took a step back and recalculated her approach. I didn't care if I had offended her. I was sick to death of being considered a joke, as being taken for a child, or chastised, or considered less important. Isthalla had toyed and taunted and humiliated me, and now after all this time I had finally thought she was warming up to me - she had crushed my hope. I didn't exactly feel like putting up with another mage whose only goal was to torment me in some way or another.

"I-" she paused, looking down at the flower in her hand, then back to me. "I just.. wanted to speak with you."

"What, so you can tell me what a blundering oaf I am? Or maybe a witless _bastard_, that was always a good one. I'm not really in the mood, Morrigan," I bit back at her. She truly looked offended now, and for a moment my better judgment caught a hold of me as I thought better of my words. I heaved a sigh and slumped.

"I'm sorry.. I'm just-" I searched for words. Did I honestly want to tell Morrigan about my romantic hardships? She'd probably laugh in my face. A better that I'd kept it a secret for so long. "Nevermind, you wouldn't care anyway," I closed myself off again, turning away to step into the hallway and stride towards whatever direction led me away from her.

I managed to wander my way into an empty hall that appeared to be a training room. Glad to find a vent for my frustrations, I took up one of the chipped, old swords from the rack and began hacking away at the wooden targets lining the wall.

After about twenty minutes I'd exhausted myself to the point of passing out. In the process, I'd removed most of my outer layers of armor. Sweat drenched my tunic and forehead. I tried to blink the salt from my eyes, and with a final heave threw the worn sword at the opposite wall.

"A bit excessive, don't you think?" a wearily familiar voice chided on my ear. I spun around, still trying to catch my breath, to find Morrigan perched on a wooden table pushed against the wall.

"Have you been here this whole time?" I asked in astonishment. She nodded, further producing confusion from my expression. "Wh-?" I tried speaking, but again heaved to catch my breath. I held up an index and buckled over my knees.

"'Twas not difficult. I was only a few paces behind," she shrugged. "You were so intent on your anger that you did not notice my presence."

After I'd managed to get a hold of myself, I straightened back up and stumbled over to the table as well, opting to slump in the seat beside the table. She glanced down at me.

"You reek," she crinkled her nose.

"Yeah, thanks," I breathed while resting the weight of my body over my knees and lowering my head. I smiled nonetheless, now exhausted of my frustration. A comfortable silence stretched out for a moment, of which Morrigan took advantage of by swinging her feet.

"So, you found my flower," I decidedly took the reins of the impending conversation. I'd rather get it over with than have her subtly drag it out for the next half-hour.

"I did," she nodded. I waited. When she added nothing to her statement, I raised my head and looked at her rather strangely. She was happily preoccupied staring ahead, still picking at the thing in her hands. It looked as if she'd tried to actually put it back together. Could mages do that?

"Aren't you going to ask me about it?" I finally asked, squinting one eye up at her. I used a portion of my shirt to try and wipe away the sweat still beaded on my brow, and met wet, smelly fabric. "Augh!" I voiced my disgust, and promptly tore the smelly, soggy tunic over my shoulders before tossing it on the ground.

Morrigan only raised a brow to my strange performance, then turned away again to answer my question. "Only if you want to talk about it," she said quite simply. Now I was confused. Either she had a secret agenda or I was simply missing something. The Morrigan I knew didn't comply so easily to a conversation. She would dig until every little bit of information was unearthed to know, with or without my consent.

"..Really?" I said rather incredulously. I was now squinting in order to keep the sweat from dripping into my eyes, a rather hilarious and odd expression to hold. She caught my expression and _tsk_'d before abruptly hopping to her feet and strolling across the room. After a quick search, she somehow managed to find whatever it was she sought and returned with a ragged strip of cloth meant to wipe my face. I wordlessly took it from her and rubbed the length of my face and neck. While I busied myself with reprimanding my hygiene, she picked back up the conversation.

"Yes, really. If it eases your conscious, I knew you meant it for Isthalla," she chimed in with an unfamiliar weight to her voice. I stopped wiping the back of my neck and looked up at her.

"Am I that obvious?" I asked quite honestly. I had hoped to be more secretive about it, but if Morrigan noticed then there was a large chance Isthalla had noticed as well. She must have sensed my alarm, because she almost immediately answered my unspoken question.

"Don't worry, I don't think Isthalla realized it," she sighed while resuming her perch on the table. She swung her feet a few times, then fell still and stared up at the ceiling while resting her weight on her palms. "You, however, need to come up with a better approach than getting down on one knee and handing her some flowers," she finally returned to that familiar tone of motherly chastising.

"Well, you won't have to worry about that anymore. I'm not giving her anything," I heaved another sigh and rested my back against the wall and thunked my head against the stone. I looked at her. "And it was _one_ flower - a rose."

"As I noticed," she looked back into her hands, now holding a perfectly formed rose as before.

"How did you-" I sat up, holding my hands out for the precious flower now restored as if I'd never touched it. She relinquished the gift and pulled her legs up, crossing them.

"I have many skills at my disposal, flora repair being the least of them," she commented. I was still perplexed by how perfect the rose lay in my hands, entirely in tact. It suddenly struck me that she had done this before.

"Wait-" I paused while working the idea through my head, then turned to her with a befuddled look. "Have you been doing this the entire time..?" I asked her, still a bit shocked by the idea. I recalled the many times I had feared crushing the flower in my satchel, yet every time I went to rescue it from the leather confines of my equipment it always remained in pristine condition.

"I couldn't let you give a woman a broken flower, now could I?" she said it in a way that made it seem unspeakable to do so. Despite this, I felt nothing but utter surprise that something so insignificant to Morrigan could mean so much to me.

"I can't believe it," I smiled, now inspecting the rose with the adornment of a young child.

"Now do you really expect me to do all that work for nothing, Alistair?" she demanded. I turned back to the curious mage on my right and found her haughty expression and demanding posture rather funny in that moment. It was strange that she would do so much work just for a silly flower, but then again Morrigan often insisted on nothing but the best treatment - even if it meant meddling into my own personal affairs, it seemed.

"If you are going to confess how you feel, then I suggest you stop avoiding the subject like a frightened little girl and do what you intended to _do_ months ago," she chided me. "I mean, honestly, the worst that can happen is she can say _no_." Even though she had insulted me and reminded me again of impending failure, I couldn't wipe the smile off my face. Seeing the rose restored in my hand had given me hope again, like a light at the end of a dark tunnel.

"Thank you, Morrigan, really-" I could hardly contain myself. She wasn't sure what to do with compliments, and put them to the side with a small wave of her hand.

"Just… don't use the lines you rehearsed. That's my only suggestion," she made a funny face. I felt my own flush with embarrassment that she'd also seen me awkwardly trying to reenact the imaginary situation of presenting the rose to Isthalla. I groaned, suddenly reminded of just how incompetent I could be.

"I don't think I can do this," I faltered back on my well-remembered uncertainty. A hand quickly caught my arm, causing me to tense up and yelp.

"Ow!" I rubbed the spot, though it hadn't hurt. A reflexive noise.

"Oh would you quit that nonsense?" she barked. "You're entirely capable and you know it - if you would stop _whining_ long enough to realize it." I screwed up my face in sudden confusion that she had somehow simultaneously managed to still insult and compliment me at the same time.

"I- _thank you_, I guess?" I scrunched up my face to her, then shook my head. "I'm sorry, I know I do complain a good bit, don't I?" I added with a humored chuckle while laboring to my feet. She snorted.

"_Only_ a little?" she inquired. I stared her down, expression flattened, and sighed.

"Oh fine, a _lot_," I rolled my eyes. She seemed pleased by my answer, and waved me off with an airy hand I had learned to ignore, though still obeyed out of some form of twisted respect for the woman. I had never really experienced what it was like to have a mother, but I expected she would be quite similar to Morrigan. Scary thought, really.

Though not a terrible idea.


	58. Bookworm

Daylight dwindled outside of the tower walls, though hardly noticeable within this old stone prison I once called home. Sconces had already been lit along the most active hallways in preparation for evening, and I had been summoned to my First Enchanter's quarters.

My hands touched the stone as I ascended to the third floor; a rough, cold surface my fingers had missed. I tried not to gaze upon the horrors that still clung to the ceiling in pulsing, flesh-white clusters. The Circle was far from repaired, though in time I had hope that it would return to bygone days of templars chasing down mage children and chattering apprentices. Now, it was as cold and still as the stone itself.

A few of the templars eyed me in prejudice as I passed, and I myself bared them no interest. Their petty grievances did not bother me, and nor would I care if they had dared raise a weapon again. Their hand would not make it halfway to their sword belt if I had anything to say about it.

Head held high and eyes ever-wary as I passed the templars' dormitory (momentarily glancing inside for a slight hope of seeing a head of red hair) I strode onward nearly to the staircase and took a sharp turn right into Irving's office.

Unexpectedly, I found him standing in the middle of the room with his hands behind his back. I hesitated, hostility entering my posture for a brief moment as I checked the room for other bodies - perhaps Greagoir as he awaited to spring at me from the shadows. When I was satisfied no one else crowded the room, I slowly walked inside and shut the door behind me.

"I trust you were greeted with the proper respect deserving of a Grey Warden?" he asked. I checked behind the door in case someone had decided to hide there, then turned my slightly-twitching ears back towards my former instructor.

"Indeed, it seems three months has not forgotten Cullen's habit of extensive courtesy," I offered a languid expression of amusement to my teacher, then adjourned to the chairs he had set out for us. It was strange that I should sit beside rather than across from someone I had considered my leader for so many years. He rested one elbow on the arm of his chair, then used his other hand to stroke the silver of his beard.

"Wynne tells me she plans to stay at the Circle to assist with teaching the remaining students," he inquired in a tone that sounded more like scolding than speculation. I dropped my eyes down momentarily, then settled more in my chair and crossed my legs.

"I figure the less people we have to look after, the less attention we will attract," I explained. "And perhaps a few less assassination attempts-" I started to add, then caught his surprised posture.

"_Assassinations_?" he leaned forward and widened his eyes. "Maker, have you been attacked?" he asked. I had thoughtlessly assumed he had heard of the news. I had to remind myself that outside of the tower, the land was vast and news traveled much slower than a few floors up to my teacher. After all, my problems were small in comparison to the repair of an entire Circle. Of course he hadn't heard. I tapped my foot a few times for measure and tried to shrug off the topic.

"A few times…" I admitted, my eyes turning to the desk as I ran a thumb across my chin. "We handled it." My memory drifted back to the forest outside Denerim, and ice filled my chest again as I remembered the cloaked mage. I could not make out his face, no matter how many times I tried in the fog of my brain. The scars on my arms still had not fully healed since the incident. My jaw tightened.

"Well, I suppose you have - considering you are here, unharmed," he agreed, then paused as if he had read my thoughts. He narrowed his gaze. "_Are_ you all right?" his voice was pitched in the tone of a demanding parent, one of which I hardly ever had the right mind to refuse. It took all of my willpower to grit my teeth and lie to him.

"I'm _fine_, really," I assured him, then began to pick and straighten my robes in a fit of discomfort. He took this as closure to the conversation (despite the obvious dissatisfaction of my answer written on his face) and moved on, now seeking to find his chair behind the desk once more perhaps in an unconscious need to remind me of his authority.

"Well, obviously I hadn't called you here to simply chat about your health - though I am always interested to hear that you are doing well," he slowly made his way around the desk, placing a hand along the surface as he ambled along. I noticed it was considerably more empty than the last time I had sat in front of it. Perhaps he had restored the books I had sought so long ago? A curious thought.

"So what did you wish to talk about?" I picked back up once he had found a comfortable spot in his enormous leather seat and began to settle himself. He rested both arms on the desk and splayed his fingers together, looking down at me. The scornful, yet considering look he often bared made me feel small and inferior, and like so many years ago I was once again a child swallowed whole by the chair I sat in as my mentor willed sincerity from guilty lips.

"I was hoping you could tell me," he smiled in a betraying manner, his eyes narrowed in the slightest. I hadn't planned on returning to the tower so soon, but Irving was perhaps the only one with extensive knowledge on the matter. That, and the only other source of information from what was left of the enormous library on the second floor.

"We seek the Ashes of Andraste," I laid out the journey quite simply for him. Upon hearing this, he sat back and raised his eyebrows in earnest.

"_Really?_" he seemed surprised. "So it's true that Eamon has fallen ill in Redcliffe." I nodded, and again glanced back at the door out of habit to ensure no one was attempting to eavesdrop. It remained shut.

"We're gathering an army in hopes to eradicate the blight before it begins, but to do that we need his support-"

"Which I imagine would be very difficult if he were not awake to confer," he added with a dry chuckle, though it sounded bitter. He already grasped much of what was a growing problem for myself and the others in my group.

"I've already tracked down a source to Denerim, but it seems the owner of the information is somewhere in the mountains," I sighed in aggravation. We had made it all the way to Denerim, only to find out we would have to turn around again and head towards the Frostback Mountains. I only hoped the information we procured was not incorrect, and that his assistant wasn't leading us on a wild chase across Ferelden. I would personally break every limb on his body if that were the case.

"Is that where you intend to travel to next?" he asked me. Again, I nodded, then pressed my lips together in thought. As far as I had found, this was the only feasible option right now; however, if ever there were an alternative chance, Irving should know of it.

"If it is our only remaining option, then yes-" I looked up to him, my eyes hopeful. I could see him already working out the unspoken question, though as the seconds passed and I watched his forehead wrinkle, I already knew the answer. My heart fell.

"What has befallen Eamon is beyond the help of any mage's talents, including myself." he regrettably voiced the topic as something he had approached before. Irving was the first choice to go to for help as I'd learned, though I knew it was soon after discovered even _he_ was not capable of curing Eamon. It must have frustrated him greatly.

"So a mythical urn of ashes is truly our only choice, then?" I sighed. He laughed then, a surprising reaction, and I tensed in my seat.

"Why sound so doubtful? Truly, you must first _believe _in the thing itself if you are to go out and _find_ it," he lightly chided me, though I understood what he was trying to do. I admittedly had a harder time being optimistic at a grim time like this. "Otherwise you really _are_ chasing a myth. That will get you _nowhere_."

"I apologize," I corrected myself. "It's been… difficult coping with this entire _thing_, I-" there was no real reason or way to put into words how I had felt since the beginning. Though I had yet to entirely give up, the pressure was beginning to weigh on me. I could feel myself growing weary with every day that followed another fruitless search. "I-I'm just not exactly adjusted yet to the idea of being a leader, I suppose," I finished with an embarrassed frown.

"And neither was _I_ the day I became First Enchanter, but we must persevere nonetheless," he nodded to me, a fond smile stretching under the weight of his beard. "After all, there are people _you_ must _protect_." My mind instantly shifted to Cullen, as bright-eyed and warm as I remembered - standing there in the entrance foyer like a little boy waiting for a present. I had barely contained myself upon arrival, and had yet to get the blasted man out of my head all day. Irving must have sensed my shift of mood - that or my sudden flushed expression must have given it away. Damn it all.

"He is very glad to see you, I must say," Irving read my mind like an open book, an all-knowing twinkle shining in his eyes. I flushed red and touched a thumb to my chin again, trying to suppress my budding embarrassment. "It's been a frightful long time since any of the templars smiled, _especially_ him. I'm glad to know you could cheer him up, if only for a short while."

"Me too," my voice was small and timid when I replied. I felt awkward to have such a of conversation with Irving, though he spared me any further with a wave of his hand.

"Now, as far as I recall we may yet still have a few volumes on Andraste's Ashes somewhere in the library," he looked up at the walls in thought and tapped his finger to his beard. "Though I cannot remember where."

"That's all right," I piped up, suddenly eager to attach more reason to my library visit that would take place later on. "I would feel more reassured knowing I'd looked for it myself rather than be told someone else couldn't find it." He nodded in understanding and rested his arms on his chair.

"I would offer you more, though my memory is not as strong as it use to be and most of my thoughts now scatter amongst the parchment of my office," he chuckled. "I will have to gather them tonight and see if I might find something useful to bring along with you in the morning-" he paused and looked at me expectedly then.

"That is to say, you intend to stay for the night?" he inquired. I nodded.

"At the vexation of Greagoir, I suppose I will." He laughed in good nature and waved me off, standing alongside to escort me to the door.

"I suppose that is one way of putting it," he ushered me with a kind hand, then stopped at the doorway as I stepped out into the hallway. "Regardless of his personal feelings, you are still a Grey Warden deserving of every respect." He looked at me, then patted my shoulder as I turned to him to speak his final thoughts with a quiet smile.

"As long as I am here, always remember that you are _welcome_ in this Circle, Isthalla," he told me, then nodded and left me to the empty stretch of hallway. My chest swelled up for a brief moment after the door shut, then dissipated as I forced my emotions back down. Even after all this time, to hear Irving regard me as one of his own - I couldn't quite grasp my own feelings for it. Grief swelled, followed by relief. Then guilt. I breathed deep and set off down the hallway towards the second floor to rid myself of it all.

It would be a few hours before I expected my templar to hopefully uphold his promise, but I arrived at the library before sunset nonetheless in search of the volumes Irving spoke of. It briefly occurred to me that Zevran had wandered off in the direction of the same library when we had arrived, though upon entry it seemed barren other than littered books and used candles still stacked upon tables long absent of their users. I traipsed up the isles and scanned them in hopes I might come across my assassin, but he was nowhere to be found. Shrugging, I turned my attention back to the shelves and began my search.

"I suppose we should start alphabetically then?" I sighed, though by the looks of it the templars had done a very poor job of returning the novels to their proper places. "Maker, they can't do anything right, can they?" I shook my head and removed a handful of misplaced items and set them on a nearby table. I might find a book about the ashes by the next century, with extensive luck and a _lot_ of patience.

"This might take a while."


	59. The Edge

Her thumb tapped against the surface of an open book, glowing white in the dark from the light of a single candle. She was wrapped in layers of thought, her eyes entirely fixed on whatever intriguing subject spread out over the table in a littering of scrolls, tomes, and old literature.

I wasn't quite sure what information she had been after by the concerning wrinkle to her forehead, though I was compelled by old habit to ask if I could find a specific novel for her to read. She shut the pages in front of her once she sensed my presence and looked up with a freshly masked expression. The frustration that had tainted her features left as quickly as I'd found it.

I only briefly lingered my eyes over the indiscernible scribblings on the old oak table before turning my glance back to her face. Under the candle's glow, her face lit up like the snowy flesh of a lily, and red lips parted with pristine memory as she smiled and made me forget myself again.

"And here I was thinking you wouldn't show up," she tilted her smile in the slightest, betraying old mischief in the shine of her eyes, though considerably more tired than I remembered. What I had mistaken for complacency earlier that afternoon I now understood as a weariness that went well beyond physical injury. I had seen the very same on the faces of my men and fellow knights, still stunned by the torment of their fallen comrades. She had seen death, that I could sense in her gaze. Sadness colored her smile.

My heart began to fall at the sight of my beloved mage in such a broken state. Upon closer observation, I noticed the purpling under her eyes was not part of her native red markings as previously thought, but hollowed remnants from countless hours spent fighting for sleep, or for a latter problem I had forgotten entirely until that very moment - her nightmares. It had somehow slipped my mind that with her absence of the tower, it did not mean the terrors that plagued her beforehand would disappear as well.

By the look on her face, they were still very much present in her routine and had affected her to the point of exhaustion. The idea made my stomach turn, for I knew firsthand what it was like for her to endure them. As a templar, I was only allowed to look at her from an outside perspective, though that in itself had been a frightening experience. Out in the wilds she did not have the comfort of a half-dozen trained enchanters who were familiar with her history and a magi infirmary to tend after her specific illness. She had been entirely alone these long months, and suddenly I felt sick to my stomach with guilt all over again because I had not been there to look after her as I should.

My hand reached out and touched her head out of thoughtless comfort for the poor girl, though almost immediately I recognized my error when my bare and very un-gloved hand met the soft texture of her hair. It only shortly after occurred to me I was no longer in my armor as was accustomed to with nearly every instance I had been with Isthalla. I wore nothing but my ranked coat, tunic, and trousers along with a pair of worn leather boots. Templars were never required to wear armor while off-duty, though most of the time we were required to keep to restricted areas due to the idea that mages might consider us less hostile were we to approach them dressed in nothing more than clothes. At least, that is what I had assumed in the past. Now that my hand rested on her hair, completely naked to the sensation of it, I knew it had been for entirely different reasons.

Nothing separated the flesh of my hand from touching her skin. Even though I had frozen in my moment of realization, she eased in the slightest toward my palm and shut her tired eyes, smiling at me. My arm loosened as I regarded her weary posture and sleepless expression.

"You look terrible," I commented with a concerning frown, further tightening my chest as I heard the thickness of my own voice, muddied by coupling grief and shame that I should let her remain this way. Her smile disappeared, as did the warmth to her face I had mistaken because of the candle light. As she leaned back and away from it, I could see the pallor to her face now - not glowing as I had thought, but ill and weak. My hand had lifted slightly from her head, now hovering above it as if I couldn't decide whether or not to move away. I circled it around the shape of her face, my attention turning back to her newly short hair as my fingers caught a tendril between my index and thumb and twirled it, still savoring the sensation of her hand on my skin, then released it with a smile.

"Though I might just get used to this," I nodded to her new haircut, hoping to ease the friction I had unintentionally built. After a glance to ensure I had not stirred her ire, I took a slow seat beside her at the table, resting my hands over one another and looking down at them to make certain I would not raise them again. I couldn't trust myself to touch her. I heard a light, withering sigh escape my poor mage as she shifted in her seat and rested delicate fingers on the table within reach of my own. I tightened my grip.

"I was hoping you would hate it," she half-joked in a hoarse voice. Then, clearing her throat for clarity, she touched the section of hair I had admired with a fleeting look I couldn't discern and tilted her amber eyes to the floor again. "Though I cannot say I wanted you to notice the other… differences." She voiced what hung in the air like a heavy, dark cloud that - in the process of her leaving the tower and returning - had stolen the vindication from my mage. Her voice had fallen again, transpiring me to rise from my seat and ease her sadness. My knuckles grew white with anticipation as I forced myself to remain perfectly still. I frowned.

"I'm sorry, I hadn't meant it to insult you, I just-" she raised a hand to stop me, then followed with a somber smile.

"I know - I must look a fright," she finished the thoughts that I didn't have the heart to voice. Emptiness mired her smile. "I haven't slept at all lately," she fell again, and my heart couldn't take it.

"Are you feeling all right?" I asked. I knew what the answer was, and had always been from the first day I met her. However, rather than lash out in rebuttal to my petty concerns, I watched her physically crumble into her own posture. All that managed to follow my question was a small but feeble shake of her head. I did not press the matter, though my heart began to pace as I considered my next words.

"Regardless of the circumstances, Isthalla-" I caught her attention when she heard me speak her name - something I did not often do for the obvious affection it would imply in public places - and softened my tone. "_Regardless_," I emphasized with a kind smile, "you are still _more beautiful _than any woman I've _ever_ met in Thedas." Her face tensed in an expression I couldn't place, then she pulled her hands rather rapidly from the table and placed them into her lap with her head tilted down again. My heart fell.

"Please don't say that, Cullen…" she murmured. Isolation struck me in that moment, further magnifying my humiliation at once again revealing myself to her in a foolish display of unwanted affection. Ears burning and stomach twisting from my mistake, I retreated with the reminder that this was an entirely impossible scenario. I was still a templar bound by unshakeable duties I could not ignore, and I was a naïve _fool_ to have ever believed otherwise.

"I-I'm sorry-" I struggled to collect myself in a meek, shameful stutter that seemed to unearth itself with every word from her lips. I stumbled to my feet, head reeling with embarrassment, ears burning, and infuriating myself in silence.

_ You incomprehensible fool._

_ Why would you say that to her?_

My poor attempts at leaving the conversation with some shred of respect were quickly destroyed as I caught the leg of the chair with my boot and nearly took the table with me. "_Damn it_," I hissed as the table jumped and shifted from my blundering.

"That was… _entirely _out of line. Forgive me, Isthalla-" I bent over the table and quickly replaced the papers while keeping my head bowed low. In my poor attempts to escape, she had stood to her feet as well. Before I could manage to turn away, a bare female hand caught my arm and burned my skin like fire. It lit up with the same intensity as before in the courtyard where she had wrapped her arms around me and buried her face in my neck. Her touch was something I yearned for each and every day despite myself, and held a power over me like none other. A thousand prayers could not take the desire from me no matter how much I begged, and nor could my guilt once I'd realized it. For this reason, I immediately fell still, as weak as a dog is to its master, and shuddered a breath from my lips.

_ Maker, I can't do this.._

"_Please_, Cullen-" her voice shattered my remaining barriers as if nothing more than glass had separated us. When I finally drew my gaze upward, I could see fear and anticipation wrought within her beautiful features, further disabling me. I wanted to shake her off, _Maker_ I tried, but my willpower had fallen to nothing more than a murmur once I'd heard the desperation in her voice and saw the plea in her eyes. I could hardly breath… and I knew then that I still loved her with every bone in my body, every ache of my heart that longed to keep her safe, and every jump in my chest that followed with her precious laughter. She meant more to me than anything, and I knew I was damned for it.

My hands were shaking when I reached up with intentions to guide her away from me before it was too late. Anything but this - she knew I couldn't fight it, not with a single breath. There was nothing left of me that I had not already given to her, and despite myself I knew I didn't want to leave. She stood there in my shaking grasp which had yet to release from her shoulders. Somehow my hands fell to her arms, securing into her warm flesh like an anchor. My breath fell shallow and quick, and tongue thickened in my mouth as I tried to find the words to speak and rid her before we expanded this road any further. I fought for reason in my spiraling madness that lingered on the parted shape of her mouth that now invited me like a sweet poison.

My heartbeat had grown to a thundering reverberation in my chest. She kept speaking those paralyzing words, drifting ever closer as my own body shifted on instinct to meet her halfway. She was so warm, and my hands still trembled on her arms.

_ You weak fool…_

"_Please_, Cullen," she whispered again to me, now inches from my face. "Don't go." I mumbled something to her in a throaty voice not of my own, and in the fog of my mind I couldn't register it until she had drawn so close that the heat of her breath blanketed my mouth.

_ I won't leave you._

I lingered in that space, a breath from my beloved mage, and felt the last threads of my sanity pulling me back in resistance. This _could not _happen - should _never_ happen. She would be _killed_ if Greagoir _ever_ were to find out, or worse. Yet even with a dozen warnings beating against my skull, I found her last petrified words unraveled me to nothing but a mortal man at her feet. As the last syllables fell from her lips, I descended those last steps forward and into my mage's arms.

_ I love you Cullen. I always have._

With shaken hands and shallow breath, I held Isthalla in my arms and kissed her for the very first time. Sanity and reason no longer had a place in my mind as it faded into nothing, punctuated by the bursts of light threading through the back of my skull with each new desperate press of her mouth to mine. She was more potent than any spell, stronger than any lyrium, and warmer than the sweetest fire. My sweet, _sweet_ mage.

_ Isthalla.._

My heart burned with the embers of my long-forgotten affection, and of a love I had assumed would never be returned, yet had remained in my heart for what felt like an eternity. I had spent so much of my time suppressing my wretched feelings that it wounded me. I unexpectedly found myself grabbing her with all my strength and lifting the weight of her body off the ground to place upon the table. In my haste, I had nearly shoved the entire table into the wall in the process.

She reacted to my motion by wrapping her arms and legs around my body in a needy embrace, and one I melted into with everything left of me. Urgency filled my chest as I reached up and grabbed her face and pressed her to me. I held her for all I was worth, all the while letting the fire course through the core of my body and down into every extremity. Pain thrummed in my chest along with desire, restrained for so long it now wounded me upon release. My lungs were strangled, every muscle in my body tensed, and all the while my mind still struggled to remain grounded lest I slip entirely. Her hands were running through my hair now and soft, desperate noises escaping her lips. Maker's _blood_, if she didn't stop-

I was on the edge, nearly over myself when a hand reached for my belt and shot ice through my belly. I tore myself away with a terrified gasp as my heart lit with sudden panic. My widened eyes fell to her own, mirroring my abrupt confusion and fear. Sharp memories cut through my mind like a knife and made my blood run cold. It did not help that the candle had since been extinguished, and in the shadows I could almost make out the demon's smile in the distorting darkness. My chest tightened as anxiety set in.

"I-I'm sorry," I choked out, completely out of breath and still shaken from a mix of terror and shock from unfamiliarity the with physical contact I had been deprived of for so long. She looked upset now, and slowly climbed off of the table to try and approach me. It only worsened the vision in my head, and propelled me back as a petrified child regarding a nightmare. Recollection seared me again as I remembered the demon's fangs at my throat, and the pain I had felt. My shame. My regret.

She retracted her grasp, and desperate, frightened - I turned away so the visions might stop. My heart still thundered in my chest, and panic crawled up every nerve in my body, making it harder and harder to breath. My breath quickened the more I struggled to calm myself, and soon enough I began to feel dizzy.

"_P-Please_, forgive me, Isthalla-" I wheezed, hearing the wretched sounds of a voice I could hardly believe was my own. I tried to swallow the lump in my throat, but it did nothing to rid the tempered pitch of fear. "I-I'm sorry, I… I _can't_," I forced the words out like thick lead on my tongue, still staring wild-eyed at the floor. The carpet was beginning to blur in and out of focus, and soon after her concerned voice faded to the back of my mind - replaced by the sounds of my shallow, frantic breath and beating heart.

I muttered another apology, though I knew it would do no good. My vision was beginning to blacken, so I gathered myself and stumbled towards the door, and left my mage shaken and alone once more.

_ Maker, what's happened to me?_


	60. Needed

My vexating Warden called to me from the shadow of her walkway in the library, though I did not answer. I was well hidden, and even if she had seen me I doubt she would have spoken unless I answered. There had been an undeclared agreement between we two, though at times I wondered how well she had intended to keep to her promise.

I crept along the walls in the dark, following my Warden as I once had - creeping along the shadows to follow her wake as a predator to its prey. I had very few times in the past months to exercise my formerly accustomed movements, though it felt entirely natural as I followed her private motions through the library. She spent the first half of the evening replacing books in a slight huff - an obviously familiar duty she missed performing. I offered silent condolences.

As the hour grew late and the sun began to set, I found my interest returning to the templar I knew to be her lover. She had never spoken much of him, but I had picked up enough from hushed conversation and glances to understand. Unfamiliar jealousy had prickled my skin, and I had barely excused myself from the conversation before embedding a much-loved dagger into a crack in the stone wall. A true shame, considering it had been a gift from Isthalla.

Possession had locked my mind in a vice all evening, something entirely unbecoming of one such as myself. I had no reason for petty jealousy, or anger for that matter. I was not unfamiliar to sharing my affections, and nor was I at one point beyond considering it with my fiery leader. Though in that moment I had laid eyes on her supposed templar - my fingers ached to bury a knife in his throat. I needed to think.

I had left her alone for quite a few hours. It was dark now and I had given myself ample time to consider what it was that frustrated me so - I had come to a conclusion of apologizing to my dearest Isthalla for my behavior. Only a child cries over a treasure that does not belong to him, after all. As fine a jewel as she was.

I had prepared the dry smile on my face and reached for the door when I heard a loud shift of a table. I caught onto the fringes of a conversation - Isthalla's whisper pleading with the voice of another. A man. My gut turned again in that old-familiar way I hated, and I froze there on the threshold as I watched her sink into his arms through the crack of the door. If jealousy hadn't been the culprit of my ache before, it now roiled within me with the fury of a descending wolf. My hand shook on the door, and I had barely yanked it away before I heard her murmur his name.

Halfway had I made it down the hall before a shout resounded from that accursed room and I watched him stumble from the entryway, hand over his chest, and make down the other hallway. He barely managed to make it to the staircase before buckling over his knees, then lumbering his way up as a drunken man would. Alone.

I found a wicked opportunity present itself in that moment. Seized by my anger, I strode after him once I was certain Isthalla would not exit the library as well - silently avoiding the guards - and ascended to the restricted templar's dormitory.

I found him hunched over his knees in private lodgings separate from the crowded bunks of the dormitory - though small - obviously belonging to himself. As the Captain I imagined he had many other perks not including private meetings with the leader of the Grey Wardens. I gritted my teeth and slipped into the room unnoticed, choosing to perch across the opposite side of the room where he would not see me.

I could sense how fast his heart beat from the ragged breath of his mouth. My fingers twitched over the hilt of my weapon as I was reminded he had placed such filthy lips to Isthalla, and once again felt my fingers itch to slit his throat. Remove his presence, if only for the abhorring nature that it imposed.

I had already conjured my idea of escape, and a note I might leave her before my absence - should she ever forgive me - and readied my weapon to end the wretched man's life. I had taken a single step into the light from his window when I paused. His shoulders began to quake, and his head dipped low as he began to quietly weep in what he assumed was a private space with his hand touching a book on the nightstand. Concern briefly drew my attention to the novel, though I found myself still lurking forward. His hand slipped from the cover and held his face as he began to audibly moan apologies to our absent Warden and sob. My hand paused, held by the look I had witnessed in my Warden's eyes when she met him again. Life had bloomed within her like a fiery phoenix rising from the ashes. Breathless and beautiful, she had grasped this weak man and held him with a bare affection even a blind man could see. It was then I realized I could not do what my desperate fingers ached for - if only for her sake.

Frustration drew me back with the weight of stone. I fell into the shadows again, my jaw gritted, and slipped away before I could witness any further the degrading state of her chosen beloved. I would not feel pity for him, but the idea of suffering her tears was enough to stop me. I had fallen deep and far indeed to let someone reach so easily under my skin that I should stay my hand for their hidden lover. Taliesen would laugh, were he here. Call me a weak and pitiless fool for love. A familiar path I cared not to venture further down.

I found her still in the library - a slight unsettled - but masked as easily as I was when we exchanged ill smiles. My heart was roaring, my skin burning, and my head thundering with many dark thoughts. We exchanged meaningless pleasantries and conversation - she easily avoiding the topic of her former meeting with her templar lover. Nor the abrupt separation that had followed. There had never been a clear definition of what "we" implied, but suddenly it felt so terribly empty and I couldn't find myself further from her in that moment.

In my malcontent and frustration, I grabbed her from the chair - a fine and treacherous smile on my face - and held my Warden in my arms. I didn't care that her hands and neediness had been for him, only that I now possessed her. I would provide comfort when needed, and a warm body should she feel cold. Pleasure and safety for when she wanted it.

It became my necessity to kiss away every thought of him, wipe her skin clean with my mouth and hands, and contain all that was my vicious vixen in the poison of our love. I had no qualms against offending the library's sanctity, and neither did it seem my Warden minded. I threw her upon the table, knocking over most of the books in the process, and made passionate love to her under the light of a single candle. If only to warm her for a moment.

If only to feel needed again.


	61. Prick of a Thorn

The next morning greeted me with the slate gray of a coming storm outside my window. I briefly noted how the mage and apprentice dorms never had such luxuries as a window to look out. I was told at one time they had windows, but after so many suicides they were forced to brick up the remaining glimpses of freedom to the mages. My eyes shuttered again.

I looked again to the empty spot on the bed where my assassin had rested. He had slipped in during the night to warm me, and I inviting his presence like a weary salve to my aching soul, then disappeared again before morning. As always. My spirit companion had been noticeably quiet since our journey to the tower. Ever since the topic of the attack and Greagoir's poor attempts at reconciling normal routine with the Circle were discussed, she had fallen to a distilled murmur. I couldn't quite place her feelings - if she had any at all - but I was almost certain I felt a sense of apprehension every time I came to discuss it with someone else.

If anything, it was a welcome quiet from the constant attacks on my subconscious. I couldn't focus, and my nightmares had worsened lately. I labored between a dim, hazy world and my darkening visions that haunted my every step. Morrigan had taken a clear notice, and made her thoughts quite audible that she considered Wynne remaining at the tower a bad decision. I overruled, and insisted that Wynne stay. The tower needed her more than I did. She could give the remaining apprentices some level of normalcy, at least. I knew the children would welcome her presence.

Despite Morrigan's disapproval, I could sense in the back of my mind perhaps she was right. I wasn't sure what disaster might come of losing our senior mage, but I was certain between my own medical knowledge, Morrigan's herbal and healing magic skills, and Alistair's…. "_tending-a-cut" _experience we could manage. I repeated this to myself until I was certain it was the right decision.

_ He's here.._

My quiet companion breathed the words into my ear just in time to turn and find my formerly disheveled templar standing in my doorway with a concerned yet guarded frown on his face. He was holding something.

"Cul-" I paused, my glance turning to the package in his hands. He had a silken cloth draped over it, and an armored glove covering the letterings. A book. "What's that?" I questioned in a light, yet inviting tone. I had hoped whatever disturbance possessed him the night prior had left. It had been my foolishness to push him too far too fast - I had to remind myself that he was still a nervous man at times, despite the fact he'd adopted a rather formal face since obtaining Captaincy amongst the tower ranks. All of the knights looked to him for direction and example now - in the broad light of day, he was no longer my templar. He was the Captain.

I nodded in respect to his presence, as an added gesture.

"Irving found this amongst his private library," he handed the book to me. "He thought it might help you on your quest," he added as an afterthought. I noticed a barely-constrained attempt at calm in his voice. He was anxious and unsettled, I could sense it in his gestures and stance. I placed the book on the bed along with my other things I had been taking inventory on and stepped forward. He took a half-step back towards the ajar door.

"Cullen-" I paused when he held up a hand.

"Please, I want to keep this civil, Isthalla," he sighed and knitted his brow in frustration. His eyes were pleading and weak, and I could see how much he detested every word coming out of his mouth. "What transpired last night was a grave mistake on both my part and yours." He paused, affected by some thought I could not see. His expression pinched. "And highly inappropriate." I scoffed, unable to keep my silence.

"Do you honestly believe that?" I bared him a disbelieving expression. He kept turning wary eyes to the hallway, and in my frustration I stormed past him and slammed the door shut. I didn't give a damn if the whole tower saw. He bristled in sudden alarm once I'd separated us both from the outside of the world, yet immediately I watched his posture change once more.

"I _can't!_" he ground out in desperation, his face beginning to contort in frustration. "Isthalla, do you not understand the implications- the _danger_-"

_ Not that you don't want to… _I mentally added.

Anger flared inside of me, and on impulse I reared my hand back and slapped him hard across the face. He nearly stumbled to the floor from the abrupt smack - though I imagine it didn't wound his flesh nearly as much as his pride - then held his cheek and looked at me in complete shock.

"I refused to be toyed with, Cullen, so do _not_ take my affections lightly," I demanded in a thick, angry voice. "I will not be abused by your indecisiveness, so quit making excuses. Make. A. _Decision_."

He rose from his posture in that moment by the light of my threat, his eyes widened and mouth still hanging in uttered surprise from my brash words. As plainly as I'd laid it out for the man, he still could find no words to offer me, and stood there in fear as he battled himself over whatever sense of morality he still foolishly clung to.

I grew impatient as he continued to stand there in dumbstruck silence, and uncrossed my arms.

"Fine, then-" I resorted in a frustrated huff before grabbing him by the edge of his cuirass and pushing his weight against the wall. He shifted loudly against the stone, his metal armor grating against my ears, as I grabbed his face with both of my hands and yanked him forward into a kiss. He went completely rigid at first, still trying to tether himself to his sense of decency, then fell back into a neediness that tore at his body like a disease.

As frustrated and angry as I'd been, I felt it leave me the instant his hands grasped my face. His hands slipped to my back and held me close - a far cry from the aggressive and unpracticed gestures from the night previous - while I found my own arms winding lovingly around his neck. Warmth bloomed in my chest and face, tingling my skin. Though he held me close, there was a gentleness to his grasp I could not contend with. It quieted me to a near murmur, relinquishing my usually assertive lead to his calm demeanor.

He had nearly lulled me into silence when his lips pulled away and he rested his forehead against mine, shuddering on a shallow but quiet breath. His eyes were shut. I felt myself entirely calmed, loose in his grasp and at the whim of his movement. Then, ever so slowly, he reached up and pressed a calm, chaste kiss to my forehead. He touched a gloved hand to my face, and somehow it felt much more personal than before.

"I love you, Isthalla," he breathed. He opened his eyes, forehead still pressed to mine, and told me this. I had imagined him saying it before, true, but hearing it aloud made my heart stop and throat tighten. My heart began to beat in rapid pace as I realized his eyes were strained in sorrow. The next words burrowed into my chest like ice, forever stinging me with memory.

"But I _cannot_ do this," his voice shook in the slightest with his request. "Not if it threatens your life. No matter h-how _much_ I-" he paused, swallowed his breath, "or _you_ may want it." He strained to keep me grounded, but already I felt my mind going numb. She was laughing at my pain as it sunk deep into my heart and embedded itself. He was not being finicky, nor acting on a whim. Every word spoken was serious. His arms continued to anchor around me, and suddenly I felt trapped there - desperate to escape from the thing that now hurt me more than anyone else.

"Leave me," I stuttered out, still floundering through premature grief and confusion. I began to ease away from him, not wanting his sad eyes and face near me anymore. He called out my name, begging me to stay calm, but all I could hear were those frigid words of rejection burning in my mind and cutting me open all over again. "Leave me!" I screamed at him, throwing my fists into his armored chest until my hands throbbed. He released me on impulse, if only to save myself from breaking my hands, though in an instant the grief overwhelmed me once his embrace left.

"Just go," I said with a withering, seething breath as I crumpled into my form, eyes burning into the floor as I fought back tears. "I don't _ever_ want to see your wretched face again! _LEAVE_!" I burned with anger and hurt, throwing my fury in his face with every bit of courage I could muster. He looked stung by my reaction. I didn't care. I never wanted to see the loathsome bastard again.

I did not manage to conjure a worse threat, for when I raised my head again from a wall of hair, he had absented himself from the room - leaving the door barely ajar. I held my stomach and curled over myself, weeping quietly as it finally sunk in that this would be my last memory of the man I had once loved.

_ You deserve to be alone._

By the time Morrigan had returned, I had packed my things and waited at the door. Her half-cocked smile quickly died when she caught sight of my face, but knew better than to speak. I could hear nothing but a low ringing in my ears, and my vision continued to unfocus. My body felt numb.

We walked two floors down in complete silence, and it was only when I reached the front gate that I caught sight of him standing timidly in the entrance to the foyer, hands grasped against the doorframe. I burned my hatred into his frightened eyes for all I was worth until the great doors to the Circle shut behind us and separated me from my templar forever.

_ Damn you, _

_ Damn you to the lowest pit of the Black City _

_ you bastard._

That evening in camp my anger had lessened, though the dull, empty feeling remained in my stomach. I stared into the fire, my mind adrift, as the world around me shifted. Leliana and Morrigan played fetch with Luther, and across the camp Oghren had climbed atop a log and told a rather loud story of triumph to Sten, Bodahn, and Sandal. Zevran lurked along the outskirts of camp like a restless wolf, endlessly playing with his dagger in one hand and occasionally looking my way. I paid him no mind.

After a while I heard Alistair stumble from the underbrush behind me and take an awkward seat on the log. I had no fight left in me to send him away. Instead, I hunkered into my arms and continued to stare at the fire in hopes he might just disappear by desire alone.

"Hey," he greeted me with the feeble foolishness often unbecoming of him. I felt detestable and bitter, though grief silenced my reckless ire to nothing more than a dull murmur. I said nothing to him, my lips tight and knuckles white.

"Hey uhm," he picked back up when I made no notion of conversation, "I was hoping you'd like something- or rather, I-I wanted to give you something…" My attention shifted, appallingly, to the distraction on my left that now sought to produce something from his belt satchel.

"Here, look at this-" he dropped it into my hands before I could object. I stared down at it as a foreign object - a rose, by the looks of it. "Do you know what this is?"

"It's a rose." I said quite plainly.

"I picked it in Lothering," he continued - clearly not picking up on my disinterest in putting up with any form of conversation tonight, "and I remember thinking, how could something _so beautiful _exist in a place with _so_ much despair and ugliness?"

My attention shifted suddenly to his poor attempts at poeticism with his speech, and I realized to my disdain just where his conversation was heading.

_ Oh Maker's blood, are you joking?_

My aggravated face for his unwanted affections must have somehow been mistaken for sincerity or surprise or some other form of foolish pitying, for he continued unabashed and I found myself withering inside with frustration.

He smiled and looked at the fire, shrugging to himself. Still ignoring my rigid posture. "I-I probably should have left it alone, but I couldn't."

_ You should leave THIS alone, Alistair._

_ Please stop._

I knew he meant well, I did, I tried to tell myself that. But that same prickling sensation build at the back of my neck and threatened to overwhelm me with a hungry fire. She was hissing and laughing at him, just beckoning me to taste blood on my teeth. I struggled to hold my breath and lightly pressed two fingers between my brow.

"I suppose I thought the darkspawn might've come and their taint would destroy it," his attention drifted to the outlying trees, and in the distance stood the unmistakable silhouette of the tower on a backdrop of dark blue, cloudy skies. My stomach sickened at the sight. "I've had it ever since," he added, turning back to me. My thumb and forefinger had since been removed from my forehead, but the dry and ire-filled strain on my face remained. I did _not _want to have this conversation right now, for the love of Andraste.

"_Why_ are you telling me this Alistair?" I shook my head in impatience, waiting for him to pick up on my _please-drop-this-before-I-strangle-you _posture. He took it for some sort of girlishly feigned stupidity. The fool.

"I… thought you should have it, actually," he began. I had to withhold the strain in my voice. "In a lot of ways, I think the same when I look at you."

_ Maker's dick, you incomprehensible idiot._

I wanted to be patient, Maker I wanted to find some shred of morality and kindness left in me - but my tongue was dry and my heart had withered. I was weary, more so than I had ever been. My heart and mind were spent, and my sanity was robbed of me.

I could hardly think straight on my own lately, much less to deal with the inane prattling of a lovesick companion wrought with attempts at romanticism. Where in _Maker's name _did he get the idea to do so? I hadn't been anything more than tolerant, if not acceptable. I had never once given excuse to invite this annoyance. Regardless, he soldiered on through his stuttery confession as would be expected.

"That is, that they are quite beautiful yet prickly at times, well - not to say you aren't a nice person, but-" he fell into his familiar rambling state of nonsense, and I found my patience thinning. I sighed and looked down at the thing in my hands, more frustrated than guilty.

"What am I supposed to _do_ with it, Alistair?" I asked quite irritably. He began to sense my mood as the conversation shifted to a dead halt, his valiant attempts giving way to sheepish confusion.

"Oh, well.. I don't know really," he paused, his expression falling. "I don't suppose you can really… do anything with it. I guess it is a bit silly."

I could feel a headache forming, and in the back of my mind I still heard my templar's biting words of rejection breaking my heart in two. My skin began to burn. I picked back up on Alistair's conversation as he lapsed into a poor attempt at backtracking his conversation to something a little less exposing, though it was already too late.

"I just thought maybe.. I could say something. Tell you-" he paused, sighing and dropping his head. "What a rare and wonderful.. _thing_ you are amidst all this… darkness."

_ Great, now I'm a 'thing'.. _I sighed.

_ What a lovely sentimental fool! _

My spirit companion was as annoyed with him as I was. I wanted him gone. Immediately. I was angry and tired and in no mood to deal with this right now. If that meant hurting his precious, childish feelings then so be it.

"So you give me, _what_? A _**flower**_?" I scoffed. "For dealing with incomprehensible darkness and being plagued by sleeplessness, an arch demon, hordes of darkspawn, and civil _**war**_ - a _flower_." I shook my head and scoffed at the notion. I dropped it back in his hands and sat up, turning my head away.

Now it was his turn to act offended. He rose to his feet and looked at me with incredulity, his mouth contorting. "Well, if you want to put it that way, then _fine_! I suppose _I did _- after all, it's just a _stupid _sentiment of how I _feel_," his voice colored with embarrassment, though he was doing it to himself the longer he stood there shouting at me for Maker knows how long. His face turned a promising shade of red, and I found a cruel enjoyment at watching him suffer the way Cullen had made me suffer. "Just forget I said anything at all, I'll go throw it in the lake for you." My patience finally snapped with those words.

"Oh, _GROW UP _Alistair!" I rose to my feet in sudden anger. My shout had rang across the camp, and everyone else had stopped entirely to witness our ridiculous fight. Alistair paused then, his face and posture lessened in light of my newfound rage as he looked down at me in shock. I felt the fire burning in my veins, threatening to burst. My mouth contorted into a snarl. "You act like a kicked _dog _whenever you don't get your way!" I continued, no longer able to keep back my aggression. I wanted to hurt him with my words, wanted to make him suffer. "Guess _what? _This world will _never _revolve around your _pathetic_ feelings, and neither I - so feel free to take your wretched sentiments to another unfortunate woman, I don't give a damn! _I don't want anything to do with them!"_

By the time I heard the unreasonable vindication to my tone, the damage had been done. My anger was not for Alistair, not even remotely. I was furious with myself, and more so with another object of my frustration. Cullen. But by the time I caught up with myself, I could see that I had wounded him beyond repair. Rather than angrily retort as I had come to always expect, he retracted into himself and looked down, completely heartbroken.

"W-Well.. you can't blame me for trying, can you?" were his only weak words of defeat before he sulked off into the woods, leaving a stepped-on rose in his wake. Everyone in camp was staring at me now, completely shocked by my display. I straightened and looked about me, realizing how horrid I truly must have looked. The only one in agreement with my speech now lay in the spiteful voice of my companion, cackling mad in my head.

_ He deserved it, the stupid wretch._

_ Stop it, he did not._

_ Cowarding, pitiful whelp. Serves him right!_

_ No one deserves that treatment._

_ Well that didn't stop your templar from treating you so, now did it?_

She silenced me with her last words and, feeble - meek - I slunk off in the opposite direction of the woods and farther away from the silhouetted tower in the distance, needing to find myself alone in the dark to collect my thoughts.

_ You deserve to be alone._


	62. Wolf Beats

**Author's Note:** The second-half of this chapter was entirely inspired by **"Bedroom Hymns" **by **Florence + the Machine**, I have to admit. If you want to hear what the music they are playing sounded like to me, go listen to that song haha. I love the drumbeats in it.

* * *

I could hear the shouting all the way from the quiet bed of pond I had found in the wilderness. Frogs and crickets were my accompanying witnesses to the aggressions just yards from where I perched, listening - waiting. An overreaction on both of their parts, though I suppose some things couldn't be avoided. I gritted my jaw as I watched her storm off in the opposite direction and closer to my haven.

By the time she stumbled upon my private lodgings, I had resumed myself to the ground and had needlessly sunk bare toes into the bank of the water, digging in my feet to the mud and rock so that I might stay there. I heard her previously rushed footsteps fall still when she caught sight of me, keeping my head turned and jaw tightened, and waited for my startled Warden to decide her best course of action.

"Zevran?" she questioned me as if she were contemplating an illusion. I glanced, offering a brief smile of condolence, though I strained to do so.

"The one and only, my Warden," I eased to her, my voice calm and demeanor affable, as always. She took my inviting words and posture and climbed down into the grass beside me, barely hesitating before placing her own bare toes into the water as well. She trembled from the cold, then relaxed.

"I suppose you heard all that from here?" she asked me in a thin, nervous voice. I could see her ears threatening to fall - her eyes were swarming with stormy thought. I glanced at her and chuckled.

"Enough to know it is not much important to remind you of again so soon," I offered. She was not seeking to atone for her words, but forget them for a while. I would not be the person to goad another fight from the fiery leader. I knew much better than to pick a fight with her in such a state; my leg could certainly attest for such. "I thought we might enjoy some solitude and company of the bugs and amphibious life," I added with more cheer to my voice, hoping to draw her from whatever dark corner she had sought out.

She smiled a bit, though sad, and loosened herself into an effortless posture. I almost regretted myself for how easy it was to disarm my usually ferocious Warden. I had hoped, at times, she might have a thicker hide for such charms - but she was weak and her soul hungry for a kind voice. To me, that was a dangerously easy target as well the same for any who still hunted her. I frowned.

"You shouldn't let such a petty argument affect you so easily," I added. Criticism was not my gift, though I sensed she would not hold my minor suggestion against me. Her reaction was a meek shrug and tilt of her head, exposing the tense muscle and tendon of her neck. If I had wanted to, I could easily slit her throat and return to Loghain for my reward. I would perhaps still be able to salvage my status amongst the Crows, even. Taliesen would have approved of my actions.

_ Rianna would not.._

Isthalla must have sensed my change of mood, for she stiffened and looked at me then, her expression tightened.

"Are you all right?" she asked me. I looked at my pretty Warden - worry wrinkling her features, mouth small and sad, and dark eyes filled with motherly concern - and laughed. Such a sight I would have never considered for this fiery vixen of powerful and dark magic. Then again, many who I assumed were tough as the skin they wore often had weaker hearts than those who collapsed under the first sign of pressure. Her façade was unfortunately easy to interpret past the empty threats and abrasive nature. She was a broken heart searching for comfort, and it was my misfortune that she should fall under my guard.

That isn't to say I knew my dearest Warden wouldn't hesitate to rip me apart the moment I suggested betrayal. While she was a soft heart, her containing soul was as hard as stone for any that could not penetrate past such a barrier. Mercy and forgiveness were not something becoming of my leader, and that was perhaps her one saving grace in this pitiless world. Eventually, I knew it might be the difference between life or death. Whether for myself or my leader, I did not know… and that is what unnerved me the most.

"Perfectly so," I wiped the frown from my face with a wide, warm smile and half-lidded eyes. I feigned a sore muscle and rolled my shoulder around in the socket, wincing as I did so. "I suppose I'm a bit sore still after our small mishap with the, ah… Deep Roads expedition." She looked surprised.

"Did Wynne not see to everyone's wounds?" she sounded verbally disappointed by the idea our former senior healer had not tended to the group equally. I quickly raised my hand to detest the accusation, laughing slightly.

"Of course Wynne does an excellent job," I assured her. "Perhaps I just hoped for more _intimate_ care from a certain Warden's healing touch?" I raised a suggesting brow and smirked at her.

My troubled little elven leader finally unfurled from the cocoon of her body and climbed onto her knees, then gestured for me to turn my back to her. I obliged quite happily, pulling my hair from my neck as she undid the clasps to my leather vest and pulled away the layers to reveal tense, marred flesh on my shoulders. Truly, I _was_ still a bit sore from the fight and had refused treatment from Wynne on many occasions in lieu of tending to them myself. I never trusted others' herbal remedies.

I would, however, make a small exception for the salve that my Warden liked to use. She had taken favor to mixing her own small balms ever since finding a book on the subject which Morrigan had procured from a local vendor in Redcliffe. It smelled of mint leaves and sweet grass, and left a cool yet soothing sensation on my flesh. I had once suggested she use it for more intimate purposes, though she warned that might be the last place I would want such a feeling. I attested, laughingly so, and relinquished to her insistence after a few concerning explanations.

She worked the cooling salve into my shoulder with expertise, her delicate fingers kneading into the sore flesh of my body and easing me into a state of calm. After a time, she had to start holding my body upright with her other hand. She chuckled.

"If you relax any more, you might just fall into the water," she chided me in a light voice. "I can't reach you if you keep leaning forward, Zevran." I listened to her voice in a lulled state, savoring the way she spoke my name - hungry to hear it again and envelop my senses in the presence of my dearest Warden. I drifted to the many nights I had wrapped her in a tender embrace witnessed only by the moon and stars. Twisting, turning - she sprawled under me as a lustrous beauty of night, her dark honey eyes aglow and mouth parted in earnest wanting.

As if sensing my shift of mood (or perhaps even reading my thoughts, which I would not mind) her hands began to drift further down the front of my bare chest until she reached my thighs. My thoughts abruptly shuttered as I caught her hands before she could reach any further, and pulled her around to me instead, opting to rest her across my lap. Her mouth had already begun to protest my rebuff when I touched a thumb to her chin and silenced my pretty elf.

Softness entered her gaze as she understood and rested fully against me, decidedly wrapping her arms loosely around my shoulders. I tucked her head under mine and ran rough fingers through her loose hair, and like a rising swan from winter she unfurled her tight body into my grasp and rested there, content to let me hold her. I sang quiet Antivan melodies to my Warden until her soft-brushing fingertips to my neck fell still and hands lax around my shoulders. I continued to run my own across her head, breathing into her ear songs to ease her worried mind. Though she may never understand the words, she could take comfort in their sounds nonetheless. And I in her presence, if only for a moment.

My Warden had dozed off only for a short while when her ears twitched in aggravation to a new sound. I caught onto it only shortly after - the sound of horses on the approach. She opened her listless eyes and looked at me, then to the direction of camp. We rose together, I allowing her lead so I might redress myself, and returned to the noise of our encampment.

Our own cart vendor and carrier Bodahn was hailing a traveling caravan passing by the nearby road. About three wagons followed, some drawn by horses and others by donkey. The inhabitants of the traveling group wore varied attire, though none bore the resemblance of sinister nature or the fighting type. They seemed nervous to stop, though I imagine the sight of our few members and a warm fire might have kept them from bolting.

Isthalla trotted ahead and fell in step beside Morrigan - upon which the women exchanged hushed conversation regarding the earlier dispute between herself and Alistair - then turned back to the new circumstance at hand. I drew beside her as she addressed the travelers, my eyes following to the supposed leader of the group. He was a weary fellow with an unkempt beard and a colorful, tattered cloak around his shoulders. I narrowed my gaze and surmised he wasn't a threat - at least not one that I recognized.

"Hail, travelers," Isthalla raised her right palm. He returned the gesture with a respectful nod and brief smile. His eyes kept returning to our camp, lingering over the fires and tempting smell of roasted wild hare Leliana and Morrigan had begun to cook.

"A mighty welcome to you," a small female popped out from behind the burly man, baring a bright demeanor. She looked skinny and tired, though still managed to smile at us all despite the obvious weariness that accompanied most of their group. The bearded man - perhaps her father - glanced to the child then back to my Warden and cleared his throat.

"Perhaps we could share your camp for the evening?" he offered. Isthalla calculated the many eyes peering from the other carts - some human, most of elven descent - and hesitated.

"What in exchange could you offer?" she asked. "Obviously not food, for you look starved yourselves," she noted with clear-minded observation. He looked a bit embarrassed at first, and rubbed a dirty palm on the back of his neck.

"True, we have no food to offer-" he gestured to the rest of his caravan. "We are traveling tradesmen of varied sorts-"

"What kind of trades do you perform?" Isthalla butted in. She was being overcautious, but necessarily so. I was pleased to see her continue to question the man. I would have done so myself had she not asked. He blinked, then perked a bit in surprise.

"Well, uh - musicians, mostly. We sell some goods we find on our travels, but the bulk of our trade comes in performance and entertainment," he explained. His daughter popped out from the other side of the cart again and waved her small hand.

"I play the flute!" she smiled. He hushed her and sat her back down, out of our sights. Leliana had since moved forward in the group, and offered a light chuckle at the girl's eagerness. She stood on the other side of Morrigan.

"How sweet!" she addressed the eager child. "I myself play the mandolin, would you like to hear?" she cooed to the girl. I saw Isthalla bristle in the slightest that Leliana would so thoughtlessly step over her authority, but Morrigan caught her by the arm before she could build her aggression enough and let loose on the unknowing woman.

"I don't think it should hurt anything…" Morrigan murmured to her. We exchanged glances, both knowing what an ill-tempered mood Isthalla had been in since leaving the tower. I wasn't certain how much information Morrigan had procured from Isthalla, but by the look on her face she knew enough. "We have more than enough provisions to share, after all," she added. I nodded silently to Morrigan, who knew best how to temper Isthalla when all else failed.

"Fine," she sighed in defeat. Her attention shifted back to the burly man in the cloak. "Perhaps some music might deafen this somber night for a while," she agreed. Oghren, our most inebriated and brash of companions, stumbled forward shaking an empty bottle of whatever liquid he had stolen from the tower. He glanced up in his stupor to the large group now climbing down from their seats to join the group, and eyeballed the bearded leader with staggering clarity.

"_Hey_, you got any ale?" he pointed a thick forefinger at the man, who looked a bit taken aback by the drunken dwarf at first, then shook his head.

"Well, no-" he started to say, then held up his hand when Oghren began to stumble away. "But we do have a case of imported wine from Denerim, should you like?" he called after him. Oghren lit up in his intoxicated stupor, clapping his hands.

"Well rip me a nug and call me a fart!" he slurred. "Now we've got'teerselves a party!" he waved his empty bottle and chunked it into the abyss. I chuckled as the stoutly man began climbing into the cart in his eagerness to help find the crate, and felt Isthalla bump my shoulder.

"I know I could use a drink," she sighed under her breath as the procession of travelers unloaded their carts and joined the others in camp. I smiled sympathetically, my hand reaching to brush her back. She breathed in heavy and rested her head on my shoulder when my fingertips reached the back of her neck, kneading it slightly.

A half-hour later and I found myself perched on a log in sheer interest to the scene unfolding. The burly man - named Chester, supposedly - was more than happy to share the bounty of poor decisions and happy conversation contained within the crate of wine. Isthalla had taken a bottle for herself, while the rest shared amongst our recently bustling campsite.

The wine smelled of cinnamon and warm spices and reminded me of home. It lulled me into a state of comfort as I watched the crescendo of dancing and music shift around the campfires. Many times I had watched the night-heavy dancing of exotic slaves and maids alike in my Antiva. The walls and floors of the tavern would shake with life, and feet moved in rhythm to the beating pulse of practiced song.

Though the rhythm remained the same, the song was a different one than my Antiva. Here, they moved in the dark to the rhythm of a primordial call, of prowling wolves winding in the smoke and fire of a hunt. Drums thundered through the sole of my boots and pulsed in my chest. It thrummed like a river through the dancers that had been on the caravan, guiding their movement around the fire as wind shifts with a storm. It was truly an awe-striking sight, and yet I could not take my eyes away from one object of my fascination.

There, in the center of the throng, my Warden raised pulsing fingertips to the heavens - a bottle in hand - and danced to the song of the wilds. Her bare feet moved across the dirt and grass as water over stone, sinking and twisting through the crowd in singular gestures of fluid fire. She shifted in tandem to the drums, and with the fire silhouetted behind her it appeared more to be a war dance than a celebration. Ribbons of red and gold fabric arched around her from the dancers as I watched my Warden rise from the flames themselves, letting go of every aggression in her body as she rose from the ashes alive and hungry. She began to spin, arms spread wide, and eyes shut as the sounds intoxicated her within a world I could only look at from afar.

It was then I saw how wild my beloved Isthalla truly was, and what a beautiful face was that of such a fire-driven soul.


End file.
